CDlNTeR 


SUNSHIN6 


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RlVERBY. 

WAKE-ROBIN. 
WINTER  SUNSHINE. 
LOCUSTS  AND  WILD  HONEY. 
FRESH  FIELDS. 
INDOOR  STUDIES. 

BIRDS  AND  POETS,  with  Other  Papers. 
PEPACTON,  and  Other  Sketches. 
SIGNS  AND  SEASONS. 
WHITMAN  :  A  STUDY. 

A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS.  Selections  appropri 
ate  to  each  season  of  the  year,  from  the  writings  of 
John  Burroughs.  Illustrated  from  Photographs, 
by  CLIFTON  JOHNSON.  i2mo,  $1.50. 

WHITMAN:  A  Study.  Riverside  Edition.  i2mo, 
$1.50,  net. 

WAKE-ROBIN.  Riverside  Aldine  Series.  i6mo, 
fi.oo. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


SNOW    BUNTINGS. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

(Cfe  llitoere'iDe  press, 
1900 


Copyright,  1875,  1895, 
BY  JOHN  BURROUGHa 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PEEFATOEY 

THE  only  part  of  my  book  I  wish  to  preface  is 
the  last  part,  —  the  foreign  sketches,  —  and  it  is  not 
much  matter  about  these,  since,  if  they  do  not  con 
tain  their  own  proof,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  supply 
it  here. 

I  have  been  told  that  De  Lolme,  who  wrote  a  no 
table  book  on  the  English  Constitution,  said  that 
after  he  had  been  in  England  a  few  weeks,  he  fully 
made  up  his  mind  to  write  a  book  on  that  country ; 
after  he  had  lived  there  a  year,  he  still  thought  of 
writing  a  book,  but  was  not  so  certain  about  it,  but 
that  after  a  residence  of  ten  years  he  abandoned  his 
first  design  altogether.  Instead  of  furnishing  an  ar 
gument  against  writing  out  one's  first  impressions  of 
a  country,  I  think  the  experience  of  the  Frenchman 
shows  the  importance  of  doing  it  at  once.  The  sen 
sations  of  the  first  day  are  what  we  want,  —  the  first 
flush  of  the  traveler's  thought  and  feeling,  before 
his  perception  and  sensibilities  become  cloyed  or 
blunted,  or  before  he  in  any  way  becomes  a  part  of 
that  which  he  would  observe  and  describe.  Then 
the  American  in  England  is  just  enough  at  home  to 
enable  him  to  discriminate  subtle  shades  and  differ- 


Vi  PKEFATOKY 

ences  at  first  sight  which  might  escape  a  traveler  of 
another  and  antagonistic  race.  He  has  brought  with 
him,  but  little  modified  or  impaired,  his  whole  in 
heritance  of  English  ideas  and  predilections,  and 
much  of  what  he  sees  affects  him  like  a  memory. 
It  is  his  own  past,  his  ante-natal  life,  and  his  long- 
buried  ancestors  look  through  his  eyes  and  perceive 
with  his  sense. 

I  have  attempted  only  the  surface,  and  to  express 
my  own  first  day's  uncloyed  and  unalloyed  satisfac 
tion.  Of  course  I  have  put  these  things  through  my 
own  processes  and  given  them  my  own  coloring  (as 
who  would  not),  and  if  other  travelers  do  not  find 
what  I  did,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine ;  or  if  the  "  Brit 
ishers  "  do  not  deserve  all  the  pleasant  things  I  say 
of  them,  why  then  so  much  the  worse  for  them. 

In  fact,  if  it  shall  appear  that  I  have  treated  this 
part  in  the  same  spirit  that  I  have  the  themes  in  the 
other  chapters,  reporting  only  such  things  as  im 
pressed  me  and  stuck  to  me  and  tasted  good,  I  shall 
be  satisfied. 
Esopus-ON-HuusoN,  November,  1875. 


CONTENTS 

•MM 

I.  WINTER  SUNSHINE 1 

II.  THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD    ...  23 

III.  THE  SNOW-WALKERS 41 

IV.  THE  Fox 67 

V.  A  MAECH  CHRONICLE 85 

VI.  AUTUMN  TIDES 97 

VII.  THE  APPLE H3 

VIII.  AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  : 

i.  Mellow  England 131 

n.  English  Characteristics       ....  170 

in.  A  Glimpse  of  France 185 

iv.  From  London  to  New  York          .        .        .  204 

INDEX    .               237 


WINTER  SUNSHINE 


WINTER   SUNSHINE 

A  N  American  resident  in  England  is  reported  as 
••*  •*•  saying  that  the  English  have  an  atmosphere 
but  no  climate.  The  reverse  of  this  remark  would 
apply  pretty  accurately  to  our  own  case.  We  cer 
tainly  have  a  climate,  a  two-edged  one  that  cuts 
both  ways,  threatening  us  with  sun-stroke  on  the 
one  hand  and  with  frost-stroke  on  the  other;  but 
we  have  no  atmosphere  to  speak  of  in  New  York 
and  New  England,  except  now  and  then  during  the 
dog-days,  or  the  fitful  and  uncertain  Indian  Sum 
mer.  An  atmosphere,  the  quality  of  tone  and  mel 
lowness  in  the  near  distance,  is  the  product  of  a 
more  humid  climate.  Hence,  as  we  go  south  from 
New  York,  the  atmospheric  effects  become  more 
rich  and  varied,  until  on  reaching  the  Potomac  you 
find  an  atmosphere  as  well  as  a  climate.  The  lat 
ter  is  still  on  the  vehement  American  scale,  full  of 
sharp  and  violent  changes  and  contrasts,  baking  and 
blistering  in  summer,  and  nipping  and  blighting  in 
winter,  but  the  spaces  are  not  so  purged  and  bare; 


2  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  horizon  Avail  does  not  so  often  have  the  appear 
ance  of  having  just  been  washed  and  scrubbed  down. 
There  is  more  depth  and  visibility  to  the  open  air, 
a  stronger  infusion  of  the  Indian  Summer  element 
throughout  the  year,  than  is  found  farther  north. 
The  days  are  softer  and  more  brooding,  and  the 
nights  more  enchanting.  It  is  here  that  Walt 
Whitman  saw  the  full  moon 

"Pour  down  Night's  nimbus  floods," 

as  any  one  may  see  her,  during  her  full,  from  Octo 
ber  to  May.  There  is  more  haze  and  vapor  in  the 
atmosphere  during  that  period,  and  every  particle 
seems  to  collect  and  hold  the  pure  radiance  until 
the  world  swims  with  the  lunar  outpouring.  Is 
not  the  full  moon  always  on  the  side  of  fair  weather  ? 
I  think  it  is  Sir  William  Herschel  who  says  her 
influence  tends  to  dispel  the  clouds.  Certain  it  is 
her  beauty  is  seldom  lost  or  even  veiled  in  this 
southern  or  semi-southern  clime. 

It  is  here  also  the  poet  speaks  of  the 

"Floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous, 
Indolent  sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air," 

a  description  that  would  not  apply  with  the  same 
force  farther  north,  where  the  air  seems  thinner  and 
less  capable  of  absorbing  and  holding  the  sunlight. 
Indeed,  the  opulence  and  splendor  of  our  climate, 
at  least  the  climate  of  our  Atlantic  seaboard,  cannot 
be  fully  appreciated  by  the  dweller  north  of  the 
thirty-ninth  parallel.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  never 
seen  but  a  second-rate  article  of  sunlight  or  moon 
light  until  I  had  taken  up  my  abode  in  the  National 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  3 

Capital.  It  may  be,  perhaps,  because  we  have  such 
splendid  specimens  of  both  at  that  period  of  the  year 
when  one  values  such  things  highest,  namely,  in 
the  fall  and  winter  and  early  spring.  Sunlight  is 
good  any  time,  but  a  bright,  evenly  tempered  day 
is  certainly  more  engrossing  to  the  attention  in 
winter  than  in  summer,  and  such  days  seem  the 
rule,  and  not  the  exception,  in  the  Washington 
winter.  The  deep  snows  keep  to  the  north,  the 
heavy  rains  to  the  south,  leaving  a  blue  space  cen 
tral  over  the  border  States.  And  there  is  not  one 
of  the  winter  months  but  wears  this  blue  zone  as 
a  girdle. 

I  am  not  thinking  especially  of  the  Indian  Sum 
mer,  that  charming  but  uncertain  second  youth  of 
the  New  England  year,  but  of  regularly  recurring 
lucid  intervals  in  the  weather  system  of  the  Virginia 
fall  and  winter,  when  the  best  our  climate  is  capable 
of  stands  revealed,  —  southern  days  with  northern 
blood  in  their  veins,  exhilarating,  elastic,  full  of 
action,  the  hyperborean  oxygen  of  the  North  tem 
pered  by  the  dazzling  sun  of  the  South,  a  little  bit 
ter  in  winter  to  all  travelers  but  the  pedestrian,  — 
to  him  sweet  and  warming,  —  but  in  autumn  a 
vintage  that  intoxicates  all  lovers  of  the  open  air. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  dilate  and  expand  under 
such  skies.  One  breathes  deeply  and  steps  proudly, 
and  if  he  have  any  of  the  eagle  nature  in  him  it 
comes  to  the  surface  then.  There  is  a  sense  of 
altitude  about  these  dazzling  November  and  Decem 
ber  days,  of  mountain  tops  and  pure  ether.  The 


4  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

earth  in  passing  through  the  fire  of  summer  seems 
to  have  lost  all  its  dross,  and  life  all  its  impedi 
ments. 

But  what  does  not  the  dweller  in  the  National 
Capital  endure  in  reaching  these  days!  Think  of 
the  agonies  of  the  heated  term,  the  ragings  of  the 
dog-star,  the  purgatory  of  heat  and  dust,  of  baking, 
blistering  pavements,  of  cracked  and  powdered 
fields,  of  dead,  stifling  night  air,  from  which  every 
tonic  and  antiseptic  quality  seems  eliminated,  leav 
ing  a  residuum  of  sultry  malaria  and  all-diffusing 
privy  and  sewer  gases,  that  lasts  from  the  first  of 
July  to  near  the  middle  of  September!  But  when 
October  is  reached,  the  memory  of  these  things  is 
afar  off,  and  the  glory  of  the  days  is  a  perpetual 
surprise. 

I  sally  out  in  the  morning  with  the  ostensible 
purpose  of  gathering  chestnuts,  or  autumn  leaves, 
or  persimmons,  or  exploring  some  run  or  branch. 
It  is,  say,  the  last  of  October  or  the  first  of  Novem 
ber.  The  air  is  not  balmy,  but  tart  and  pungent, 
like  the  flavor  of  the  red-cheeked  apples  by  the 
roadside.  In  the  sky  not  a  cloud,  not  a  speck;  a 
vast  dome  of  blue  ether  lightly  suspended  above  the 
world.  The  woods  are  heaped  with  color  like  a 
painter's  palette,  —  great  splashes  of  red  and  orange 
and  gold.  The  ponds  and  streams  bear  upon  their 
bosoms  leaves  of  all  tints,  from  the  deep  maroon  of 
the  oak  to  the  pale  yellow  of  the  chestnut.  In  the 
glens  and  nooks  it  is  so  still  that  the  chirp  of  a 
solitary  cricket  is  noticeable.  The  red  berries  of 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  5 

the  dogwood  and  spice-bush  and*  other  shrubs  shina 
in  the  sun  like  rubies  and  coral.  The  crows  fly 
high  above  the  earth,  as  they  do  only  on  such  days, 
forms  of  ebony  floating  across  the  azure,  and  the 
buzzards  look  like  kingly  birds,  sailing  round  and 
round. 

Or  it  may  be  later  in  the  season,  well  into  De 
cember.  The  days  are  equally  bright,  but  a  little 
more  rugged.  The  mornings  are  ushered  in  by  an 
immense  spectrum  thrown  upon  the  eastern  sky. 
A  broad  bar  of  red  and  orange  lies  along  the  low 
horizon,  surmounted  by  an  expanse  of  color  in 
Avhich  green  struggles  with  yellow  and  blue  with 
green  half  the  way  to  the  zenith.  By  and  by  the 
red  and  orange  spread  upward  and  grow  dim,  the 
spectrum  fades,  and  the  sky  becomes  suffused  with 
yellow  white  light,  and  in  a  moment  the  fiery  scin 
tillations  of  the  sun  begin  to  break  across  the  Mary 
land  hills.  Then  before  long  the  mists  and  vapors 
uprise  like  the  breath  of  a  giant  army,  and  for  an 
hour  or  two  one  is  reminded  of  a  November  morn 
ing  in  England.  But  by  mid-forenoon  the  only 
trace  of  the  obscurity  that  remains  is  a  slight  haze, 
and  the  day  is  indeed  a  summons  and  a  challenge 
to  come  forth.  If  the  October  days  were  a  cordial 
like  the  sub-acids  of  fruit,  these  are  a  tonic  like  the 
wine  of  iron.  Drink  deep,  or  be  careful  how  you 
taste  this  December  vintage.  The  first  sip  may 
chill,  but  a  full  draught  warms  and  invigorates. 
No  loitering  by  the  brooks  or  in  the  woods  now, 
but  spirited,  rugged  walking  along  the  public  high* 


6  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

way.  The  sunbeams  are  welcome  now.  They  seem 
like  pure  electricity,  —  like  friendly  and  recuperating 
lightning.  Are  we  led  to  think  electricity  abounds 
only  in  summer  when  we  see  in  the  storm-clouds,  as 
it  were,  the  veins  and  ore-beds  of  it  ?  I  imagine  it 
is  equally  abundant  in  winter,  and  more  equable 
and  better  tempered.  Who  ever  breasted  a  snow 
storm  without  being  excited  and  exhilarated,  as  if 
this  meteor  had  come  charged  with  latent  aurora  of 
the  North,  as  doubtless  it  has?  It  is  like  being 
pelted  with  sparks  from  a  battery.  Behold  the 
frostwork  on  the  pane,  — the  wild,  fantastic  lim- 
nings  and  etchings!  can  there  be  any  doubt  but  this 
subtle  agent  has  been  here  1  Where  is  it  not  ?  It 
is  the  life  of  the  crystal,  the  architect  of  the  flake, 
the  fire  of  the  frost,  the  soul  of  the  sunbeam.  This 
crisp  whiter  air  is  full  of  it.  When  I  come  in  at 
night  after  an  all-day  tramp  I  am  charged  like  a 
Leyden  jar ;  my  hair  crackles  and  snaps  beneath  the 
comb  like  a  cat's  back,  and  a  strange,  new  glow 
diffuses  itself  through  my  system. 

It  is  a  spur  that  one  feels  at  this  season  more 
than  at  any  other.  How  nimbly  you  step  forth! 
The  woods  roar,  the  waters  shine,  and  the  hills 
look  invitingly  near.  You  do  not  miss  the  flowers 
and  the  songsters,  or  wish  the  trees  or  the  fields  any 
different,  or  the  heavens  any  nearer.  Every  object 
pleases.  A  rail  fence,  running  athwart  the  hills, 
now  in  sunshine  and  now  in  shadow,  —  how  the  eye 
lingers  upon  it!  Or  the  straight,  light-gray  trunks 
of  the  trees,  where  the  woods  have  recently  been 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  7 

laid  open  by  a  road  or  a  clearing,  —  how  curious  they 
look,  and  as  if  surprised  in  undress!  Next  year 
they  will  begin  to  shoot  out  branches  and  make 
themselves  a  screen.  Or  the  farm  scenes,  — the 
winter  barnyards  littered  with  husks  and  straw,  the 
rough-coated  horses,  the  cattle  sunning  themselves 
or  walking  down  to  the  spring  to  drink,  the  domes 
tic  fowls  moving  about,  —  there  is  a  touch  of  sweet, 
homely  life  in  these  things  that  the  winter  sun 
enhances  and  brings  out.  Every  sign  of  life  is 
welcome  at  this  season.  I  love  to  hear  dogs  bark, 
hens  cackle,  and  boys  shout;  one  has  no  privacy 
with  Nature  now,  and  does  not  wish  to  seek  her  in 
nooks  and  hidden  Avays.  She  is  not  at  home  if  he 
goes  there;  her  house  is  shut  up  and  her  hearth 
cold;  only  the  sun  and  sky,  and  perchance  the 
waters,  wear  the  old  look,  and  to-day  we  will  make 
love  to  them,  and  they  shall  abundantly  return  it. 

Even  the  crows  and  the  buzzards  draw  the  eye 
fondly.  The  National  Capital  is  a  great  place  for 
buzzards,  and  I  make  the  remark  in  no  double  or 
allegorical  sense  either,  for  the  buzzards  I  mean  are 
black  and  harmless  as  doves,  though  perhaps  hardly 
dovelike  in  their  tastes.  My  vulture  is  also  a  bird 
of  leisure,  and  sails  through  the  ether  on  long  flex 
ible  pinions,  as  if  that  was  the  one  delight  of  his 
life.  Some  birds  have  wings,  others  have  " pinions." 
The  buzzard  enjoys  this  latter  distinction.  There 
is  something  in  the  sound  of  the  word  that  suggests 
that  easy,  dignified,  undulatory  movement.  He 
does  not  propel  himself  along  by  sheer  force  of 


8 

muscle,  after  the  plebeian  fashion  of  the  crow  for 
instance,  but  progresses  by  a  kind  of  royal  indirec 
tion  that  puzzles  the  eye.  Even  on  a  windy  winter 
day  he  rides  the  vast  aerial  billows  as  placidly  as 
ever,  rising  and  falling  as  he  comes  up  toward  you, 
carving  his  way  through  the  resisting  currents  by  a 
slight  oscillation  to  the  right  and  left,  but  never 
once  beating  the  air  openly. 

This  superabundance  of  wing  power  is  very  un 
equally  distributed  among  the  feathered  races,  the 
hawks  and  vultures  having  by  far  the  greater  share 
of  it.  They  cannot  command  the  most  speed,  but 
their  apparatus  seems  the  most  delicate  and  consum 
mate.  Apparently  a  fine  play  of  muscle,  a  subtle 
shifting  of  the  power  along  the  outstretched  wings, 
a  perpetual  loss  and  a  perpetual  recovery  of  the 
equipoise,  sustains  them  and  bears  them  along. 
With  them  flying  is  a  luxury,  a  fine  art,  not  merely 
a  quicker  and  safer  means  of  transit  from  one  point 
to  another,  but  a  gift  so  free  and  spontaneous  that 
work  becomes  leisure  and  movement  rest.  They 
are  not  so  much  going  somewhere,  from  this  perch 
to  that,  as  they  are  abandoning  themselves  to  the 
mere  pleasure  of  riding  upon  the  air. 

And  it  is  beneath  such  grace  and  high-bred  leis 
ure  that  Xature  hides  in  her  creatures  the  occupation 
of  scavenger  and  carrion-eater! 

But  the  worst  thing  about  the  buzzard  is  his 
silence.  The  crow  caws,  the  hawk  screams,  the 
eagle  barks,  but  the  buzzard  says  not  a  word.  So 
far  as  I  have  observed,  he  has  no  vocal  powers  what- 


WINTER  SUNSHINE  9 

ever.  Nature  dare  not  trust  him  to  speak.  In  his 
case  she  preserves  a  discreet  silence. 

The  crow  may  not  have  the  sweet  voice  which 
the  fox  in  his  flattery  attributed  to  him,  but  he  has 
a  good,  strong,  native  speech  nevertheless.  How 
much  character  there  is  in  it!  How  much  thrift 
and  independence!  Of  course  his  plumage  is  firm, 
his  color  decided,  his  wit  quick.  He  understands 
you  at  once  and  tells  you  so;  so  does  the  hawk  by 
his  scornful,  defiant  whir-r-r-r-r.  Hardy,  happy 
outlaws,  the  crows,  how  I  love  them !  Alert,  social, 
republican,  always  able  to  look  out  for  himself,  not 
afraid  of  the  cold  and  the  snow,  fishing  when  flesh 
is  scarce,  and  stealing  when  other  resources  fail, 
the  crow  is  a  character  I  would  not  willingly  miss 
from  the  landscape.  I  love  to  see  his  track  in  the 
snow  or  the  mud,  and  his  graceful  pedestrianism 
about  the  brown  fields. 

He  is  no  interloper,  but  has  the  air  and  manner 
of  being  thoroughly  at  home,  and  in  rightful  posses 
sion  of  the  land.  He  is  no  sentimentalist  like  some 
of  the  plaining,  disconsolate  song-birds,  but  appar 
ently  is  always  in  good  health  and  good  spirits. 
No  matter  who  is  sick,  or  dejected*  or  unsatisfied, 
or  what  the  weather  is,  or  what  the  price  of  corn, 
the  crow  is  well  and  finds  life  sweet.  He  is  the 
dusky  embodiment  of  worldly  wisdom  and  prudence. 
Then  he  is  one  of  Nature's  self-appointed  constables 
and  greatly  magnifies  his  office.  He  would  fain 
arrest  every  hawk  or  owl  or  grimalkin  that  ventures 
abroad.  I  have  known  a  posse  of  them  to  beset  the 


10  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

fox  and  cry  "Thief!  "  till  Reynard  hid  himself  for 
shame.  Do  I  say  the  fox  flattered  the  crow  when 
he  told  him  he  had  a  sweet  voice  ?  Yet  one  of  the 
most  musical  sounds  in  nature  proceeds  from  the 
crow.  All  the  crow  tribe,  from  the  blue  jay  up,  are 
capable  of  certain  low  ventriloquial  notes  that  have 
peculiar  cadence  and  charm.  I  often  hear  the  crow 
indulging  in  his  in  winter,  and  am  reminded  of  the 
sound  of  the  dulcimer.  The  bird  stretches  up  and 
exerts  himself  like  a  cock  in  the  act  of  crowing  and 
gives  forth  a  peculiarly  clear,  vitreous  sound  that  is 
sure  to  arrest  and  reward  your  attention.  This  is 
no  doubt  the  song  the  fox  begged  to  be  favored 
with,  as  in  delivering  it  the  crow  must  inevitably 
let  drop  the  piece  of  meat. 

The  crow  in  his  purity,  I  believe,  is  seen  and 
heard  only  in  the  North.  Before  you  reach  the 
Potomac  there  is  an  infusion  of  a  weaker  element, 
the  fish  crow,  whose  helpless  feminine  call  contrasts 
strongly  with  the  hearty  masculine  caw  of  the  origi 
nal  Simon. 

In  passing  from  crows  to  colored  men,  I  hope  I 
am  not  guilty  of  any  disrespect  toward  the  latter. 
In  my  walks  about  Washington,  both  winter  and 
summer,  colored  men  are  about  the  only  pedestrians 
I  meet;  and  I  meet  them  everywhere,  in  the  fields 
and  in  the  woods  and  in  the  public  road,  swinging 
along  with  that  peculiar,  rambling,  elastic  gait,  tak 
ing  advantage  of  the  short  cuts  and  threading  the 
country  with  paths  and  byways.  I  doubt  if  the 
colored  man  can  compete  with  his  white  brother  as 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  11 

a  walker;  his  foot  is  too  flat  and  the  calves  of  his 
legs  too  small,  but  he  is  certainly  the  most  pic 
turesque  traveler  to  be  seen  on  the  road.  He  bends 
his  knees  more  than  the  white  man,  and  oscillates 
more  to  and  fro,  or  from  side  to  side.  The  imagi 
nary  line  which  his  head  describes  is  full  of  deep 
and  long  undulations.  Even  the  boys  and  young 
men  sway  as  if  bearing  a  burden. 

Along  the  fences  and  by  the  woods  I  come  upon 
their  snares,  dead-falls,  and  rude  box-traps.  The 
freedman  is  a  successful  trapper  and  hunter,  and 
has  by  nature  an  insight  into  these  things.  I  fre 
quently  see  him  in  market  or  on  his  way  thither 
with  a  tame  'possum  clinging  timidly  to  his  shoul 
ders,  or  a  young  coon  or  fox  led  by  a  chain.  In 
deed,  the  colored  man  behaves  precisely  like  the 
rude  unsophisticated  peasant  that  he  is,  and  there 
is  fully  as  much  virtue  in  him,  using  the  word  in 
its  true  sense,  as  in  the  white  peasant;  indeed, 
much  more  than  in  the  poor  whites  who  grew  up 
by  his  side;  while  there  is  often  a  benignity  and  a 
depth  of  human  experience  and  sympathy  about 
some  of  these  dark  faces  that  comes  home  to  one 
like  the  best  one  sees  in  art  or  reads  in  books. 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  all  the  world  akin, 
and  there  is  certainly  a  touch  of  nature  about  the 
colored  man;  indeed,  I  had  almost  said,  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  nature.  They  have  the  quaintness  and  home 
liness  of  the  simple  English  stock.  I  seem  to  see 
my  grandfather  and  grandmother  in  the  ways  and 
doings  of  these  old  "uncles"  and  "aunties;"  in- 


12  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

deed,  the  lesson  comes  nearer  home  than  even  that, 
for  I  seem  to  see  myself  in  them,  and,  what  is  more, 
I  see  that  they  see  themselves  in  me,  and  that 
neither  party  has  much  to  boast  of. 

The  negro  is  a  plastic  human  creature,  and  is 
thoroughly  domesticated  and  thoroughly  anglicized. 
The  same  cannot  be  said  of  the  Indian  for  instance, 
between  us  and  whom  there  can  never  exist  any 
fellowship,  any  community  of  feeling  or  interest; 
or  is  there  any  doubt  but  the  Chinaman  will  always 
remain  to  us  the  same  impenetrable  mystery  he  has 
been  from  the  first  ? 

But  there  is  no  mystery  about  the  negro,  and  he 
touches  the  Anglo-Saxon  at  more  points  than  the 
latter  is  always  willing  to  own,  taking  as  kindly 
and  naturally  to  all  his  customs  and  usages,  yea,  to 
all  his  prejudices  and  superstitions,  as  if  to  the 
manor  born.  The  colored  population  in  very  many 
respects  occupies  the  same  position  as  that  occupied 
by  our  rural  populations  a  generation  or  two  ago, 
seeing  signs  and  wonders,  haunted  by  the  fear  of 
ghosts  and  hobgoblins,  believing  in  witchcraft, 
charms,  the  evil  eye,  etc.  In  religious  matters, 
also,  they  are  on  the  same  level,  and  about  the  only 
genuine  shouting  Methodists  that  remain  are  to  be 
found  in  the  colored  churches.  Indeed,  I  fear  the 
negro  tries  to  ignore  or  forget  himself  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  and  that  he  would  deem  it  felicity  enough  to 
play  second  fiddle  to  the  white  man  all  his  days. 
He  liked  his  master,  but  he  likes  the  Yankee  bet 
ter,  not  because  he  regards  him  as  his  deliverer,  but 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  13 

mainly  because  the  two-handed  thrift  of  the  North 
erner,  his  varied  and  wonderful  ability,  completely 
captivates  the  imagination  of  the  black  man,  just 
learning  to  shift  for  himself. 

How  far  he  has  caught  or  is  capable  of  being 
imbued  with  the  Yankee  spirit  of  enterprise  and 
industry,  remains  to  be  seen.  In  some  things  he 
has  already  shown  himself  an  apt  scholar.  I  no 
tice,  for  instance,  he  is  about  as  industrious  an 
office-seeker  as  the  most  patriotic  among  us,  and 
that  he  learns  with  amazing  ease  and  rapidity  all 
the  arts  and  wiles  of  the  politicians.  He  is  versed 
in  parades,  mass  meetings,  caucuses,  and  Avill  soon 
shine  on  the  stump.  I  observe,  also,  that  he  is  not 
far  behind  us  in  the  observance  of  the  fashions,  and 
that  he  is  as  good  a  church-goer,  theatre-goer,  and 
pleasure-seeker  generally,  as  his  means  will  allow. 

As  a  bootblack  or  newsboy,  he  is  an  adept  in  all 
the  tricks  of  the  trade;  and  as  a  fast  young  man 
about  town  among  his  kind,  he  is  worthy  his  white 
prototype:  the  swagger,  the  impertinent  look,  the 
coarse  remark,  the  loud  laugh,  are  all  in  the  best 
style.  As  a  lounger  and  starer  also,  on  the  street 
corners  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  he  has  taken  his 
degree. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  know  cases  among  our  col 
ored  brethren,  plenty  of  them,  of  conscientious  and 
well-directed  effort  and  industry  in  the  worthiest 
fields,  in  agriculture,  in  trade,  in  the  mechanic  arts, 
that  show  the  colored  man  has  in  him  all  the  best 
rudiments  of  a  citizen  of  the  States. 


14  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

Lest  my  winter  sunshine  appear  to  have  too 
many  dark  rays  in  it,  —  buzzards,  crows,  and  colored 
men,  —  I  hasten  to  add  the  brown  and  neutral  tints, 
and  may  be  a  red  ray  can  be  extracted  from  some 
of  these  hard,  smooth,  sharp-gritted  roads  that  radi 
ate  from  the  National  Capital.  Leading  out  of 
Washington  there  are  several  good  roads  that  invite 
the  pedestrian.  There  is  the  road  that  leads  west 
or  northwest  from  Georgetown,  the  Tenallytown 
road,  the  very  sight  of  which,  on  a  sharp,  lustrous 
winter  Sunday,  makes  the  feet  tingle.  Where  it 
cuts  through  a  hill  or  high  knoll,  it  is  so  red  it 
fairly  glows  in  the  sunlight.  I  '11  warrant  you  will 
kindle,  and  your  own  color  will  mount,  if  you  resign 
yourself  to  it.  It  will  conduct  you  to  the  wild  and 
rocky  scenery  of  the  upper  Potomac,  to  Great  Falls, 
and  on  to  Harper's  Ferry,  if  your  courage  holds 
out.  Then  there  is  the  road  that  leads  north  over 
Meridian  Hill,  across  Piny  Branch,  and  on  through 
the  wood  of  Crystal  Springs  to  Fort  Stevens,  and 
so  into  Maryland.  This  is  the  proper  route  for  an 
excursion  in  the  spring  to  gather  wild  flowers,  or  in 
the  fall  for  a  nutting  expedition,  as  it  lays  open 
some  noble  woods  and  a  great  variety  of  charming 
scenery ;  or  for  a  musing  moonlight  saunter,  say  in 
December,  when  the  Enchantress  has  folded  and 
folded  the  world  in  her  web,  it  is  by  all  means  the 
course  to  take.  Your  staff  rings  on  the  hard 
ground;  the  road,  a  misty  white  belt,  gleams  and 
vanishes  before  you;  the  woods  are  cavernous  and 
still;  the  fields  lie  in  a  lunar  trance,  and  you  will 


WINTER  SUNSHINE  15 

yourself  return  fairly  mesmerized  by  the  beauty  of 
the  scene. 

Or  you  can  bend  your  steps  eastward  over  the 
Eastern  Branch,  up  Good  Hope  Hill,  and  on  till 
you  strike  the  Marlborough  pike,  as  a  trio  of  us  did 
that  cold  February  Sunday  we  walked  from  Wash 
ington  to  Pumpkintown  and  back. 

A  short  sketch  of  this  pilgrimage  is  a  fair  sample 
of  these  winter  walks. 

The  delight  I  experienced  in  making  this  new 
acquisition  to  my  geography  was  of  itself  sufficient 
to  atone  for  any  aches  or  weariness  I  may  have  felt. 
The  mere  fact  that  one  may  walk  from  Washington 
to  Pumpkintown  was  a  discovery  I  had  been  all 
these  years  in  making.  I  had  walked  to  Sligo,  and 
to  the  Northwest  Branch,  and  had  made  the  Falls 
of  the  Potomac  in  a  circuitous  route  of  ten  miles, 
coming  suddenly  upon  the  river  in  one  of  its  wildest 
passes ;  but  I  little  dreamed  all  the  while  that  there, 
in  a  wrinkle  (or  shall  I  say  furrow  ?)  of  the  Mary 
land  hills,  almost  visible  from  the  outlook  of  the 
bronze  squaw  on  the  dome  of  the  Capitol,  and  just 
around  the  head  of  Oxen  Run,  lay  Pumpkintown. 

The  day  was  cold  but  the  sun  was  bright,  and 
the  foot  took  hold  of  those  hard,  dry,  gritty  Mary 
land  roads  with  the  keenest  relish.  How  the  leaves 
of  the  laurel  glistened!  The  distant  oak  woods 
BUggested  gray-blue  smoke,  while  the  recesses  of  the 
pines  looked  like  the  lair  of  Night.  Beyond  the 
District  limits  we  struck  the  Marlborough  pike, 
which,  round  and  hard  and  white,  held  squarely  to 


16  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  east  and  was  visible  a  mile  ahead.  Its  friction 
brought  up  the  temperature  amazingly  and  spurred 
the  pedestrians  into  their  best  time.  As  I  trudged 
along,  Thoreau's  lines  came  naturally  to  mind:— r 

"  When  the  spring  stirs  my  blood 

With  the  instinct  of  travel, 
I  can  get  enough  gravel 
On  the  old  Marlborough  road." 

Cold  as  the  day  was  (many  degrees  below  freez 
ing),  I  heard  and  saw  bluebirds,  and  as  we  passed 
along  every  sheltered  tangle  and  overgrown  field  or 
lane  swarmed  with  snowbirds  and  sparrows,  —  the 
latter  mainly  Canada  or  tree  sparrows,  with  a  sprink 
ling  of  the  song,  and,  maybe,  one  or  two  other 
varieties.  The  birds  are  all  social  and  gregarious 
in  winter,  and  seem  drawn  together  by  common  in 
stinct.  Where  you  find  one,  you  will  not  only  find 
others  of  the  same  kind,  but  also  several  different 
kinds.  The  regular  winter  residents  go  in  little 
bands,  like  a  well-organized  pioneer  corps,  —  the 
jays  and  woodpeckers  in  advance,  doing  the  heavier 
work;  the  nuthatches  next,  more  lightly  armed; 
and  the  creepers  and  kinglets,  with  their  slender 
beaks  and  microscopic  eyes,  last  of  all.1 

Now  and  then,  among  the  gray  and  brown  tints, 
there  was  a  dash  of  scarlet,  —  the  cardinal  grosbeak, 
whose  presence  was  sufficient  to  enliven  any  scene. 
In  the  leafless  trees,  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  fell  upon 
him,  he  was  visible  a  long  way  off,  glowing  like  a 

1  It  seems  to  me  this  is  a  borrowed  observation,  but  I  do  not 
know  whom  to  credit  it  to. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  17 

crimson  spar,  —  the  only  bit  of  color  in  the  whole 
landscape. 

Maryland  is  here  rather  a  level,  unpicturesque 
country,  —  the  gaze  of  the  traveler  bounded,  at  no 
great  distance,  by  oak  woods,  with  here  and  there 
a  dark  line  of  pine.  We  saw  few  travelers,  passed 
a  ragged  squad  or  two  of  colored  boys  and  girls,  and 
met  some  colored  women  on  their  way  to  or  from 
church,  perhaps.  Never  ask  a  colored  person  —  at 
least  the  crude,  rustic  specimens  —  any  question 
that  involves  a  memory  of  names,  or  any  arbitrary 
signs;  you  will  rarely  get  a  satisfactory  answer.  If 
you  could  speak  to  them  in  their  own  dialect,  or 
touch  the  right  spring  in  their  minds,  you  would, 
no  doubt,  get  the  desired  information.  They  are  as 
local  in  their  notions  and  habits  as  the  animals,  and 
go  on  much  the  same  principles,  as  no  doubt  we  all 
do,  more  or  less.  I  saw  a  colored  boy  come  into 
a  public  office  one  day,  and  ask  to  see  a  man  with 
red  hair;  the  name  was  utterly  gone  from  him. 
The  man  had  red  whiskers,  which  was  as  near  as  he 
had  come  to  the  mark.  Ask  your  washerwoman 
what  street  she  lives  on,  or  where  such  a  one  has 
moved  to,  and  the  chances  are  that  she  cannot  tell 
you,  except  that  it  is  a  "right  smart  distance"  this 
way  or  that,  or  near  Mr.  So-and-so,  or  by  such  and 
such  a  place,  describing  some  local  feature.  I  love 
to  amuse  myself,  when  walking  through  the  market, 
by  asking  the  old  aunties,  and  the  young  aunties, 
too,  the  names  of  their  various  "yarbs."  It  seems 
as  if  they  must  trip  on  the  simplest  names.  Blood- 


18  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

root  they  generally  call  "grubroot;"  trailing  ar 
butus  goes  by  the  names  of  "troling"  arbutus, 
"training  arbuty-flower, "  and  ground  "ivory;"  in 
Virginia  they  call  woodchucks  "moonaeks." 

On  entering  Pumpkintown  —  a  cluster  of  five  or 
six  small,  whitewashed  blockhouses,  toeing  squarely 
on  the  highway  —  the  only  inhabitant  we  saw  was 
a  small  boy,  who  was  as  frank  and  simple  as  if  he 
had  lived  on  pumpkins  and  marrow  squashes  all  his 
days. 

Half  a  mile  farther  on,  we  turned  to  the  right 
into  a  characteristic  Southern  road,  —  a  way  entirely 
unkempt,  and  wandering  free  as  the  wind;  now 
fading  out  into  a  broad  field;  now  contracting  into 
a  narrow  track  between  hedges;  anon  roaming  with 
delightful  abandon  through  swamps  and  woods,  ask 
ing  no  leave  and  keeping  no  bounds.  About  two 
o'clock  we  stopped  in  an  opening  in  a  pine  wood 
and  ate  our  lunch.  We  had  the  good  fortune  to 
hit  upon  a  charming  place.  A  wood-chopper  had 
been  there,  and  let  in  the  sunlight  full  and  strong; 
and  the  white  chips,  the  newly-piled  wood,  and  the 
mounds  of  green  boughs,  were  welcome  features, 
and  helped  also  to  keep  off  the  wind  that  would 
creep  through  under  the  pines.  The  ground  was 
soft  and  dry,  with  a  carpet  an  inch  thick  of  pine- 
needles,  and  with  a  fire,  less  for  warmth  than  to 
make  the  picture  complete,  we  ate  our  bread  and 
beans  with  the  keenest  satisfaction,  and  with  a  rel 
ish  that  only  the  open  air  can  give. 

A  fire,  of  course,  — an  encampment  in  the  woods 


WINTER  SUNSHINE  19 

at  this  season  without  a  fire  would  be  like  leaving 
Hamlet  out  of  the  play.  A  smoke  is  your  stand 
ard,  your  flag;  it  defines  and  locates  your  camp  at 
once;  you  are  an  interloper  until  you  have  made  a 
fire;  then  you  take  possession;  then  the  trees  and 
rocks  seem  to  look  upon  you  more  kindly,  and  you 
look  more  kindly  upon  them.  As  one  opens  his 
budget,  so  he  opens  his  heart  by  a  fire.  Already 
something  has  gone  out  from  you,  and  comes  back 
as  a  faint  reminiscence  and  home  feeling  in  the  air 
and  place.  One  looks  out  upon  the  crow  or  the 
buzzard  that  sails  by  as  from  his  own  fireside.  It 
is  not  I  that  am  a  wanderer  and  a  stranger  now; 
it  is  the  crow  and  the  buzzard.  The  chickadees 
were  silent  at  first,  but  now  they  approach  by  little 
journeys,  as  if  to  make  our  acquaintance.  The 
nuthatches,  also,  cry  "Yank!  yank!"  in  no  inhos 
pitable  tones;  and  those  purple  finches  there  in 
the  cedars,  —  are  they  not  stealing  our  berries  1 

How  one  lingers  about  a  fire  under  such  circum 
stances,  loath  to  leave  it,  poking  up  the  sticks, 
throwing  in  the  burnt  ends,  adding  another  branch 
and  yet  another,  and  looking  back  as  he  turns  to 
go  to  catch  one  more  glimpse  of  the  smoke  going 
up  through  the  trees!  I  reckon  it  is  some  remnant 
of  the  primitive  man,  which  we  all  carry  about  with 
us.  He  has  not  yet  forgotten  his  wild,  free  life, 
his  arboreal  habitations,  and  the  sweet-bitter  times 
he  had  in  those  long-gone  ages.  With  me,  he 
wakes  up  directly  at  the  smell  of  smoke,  of  burning 
branches  in  the  open  air;  and  all  his  old  love  of 


20  WINTER    SUNSHINE 

fire  and  dependence  upon  it,  in  the  camp  or  the 
cave,  comes  freshly  to  mind. 

On  resuming  our  march,  we  filed  off  along  a 
charming  wood-path, —  a  regular  little  tunnel  through 
the  dense  pines,  carpeted  with  silence,  and  allowing 
us  to  look  nearly  the  whole  length  of  it  through  its 
soft  green  twilight  out  into  the  open  sunshine  of 
the  fields  heyond.  A  pine  wood  in  Maryland  or  in 
Virginia  is  quite  a  different  thing  from  a  pine  wood 
in  Maine  or  Minnesota,  —  the  difference,  in  fact, 
between  yellow  pine  and  white.  The  former,  as  it 
grows  hereabout,  is  short  and  scrubby,  with  branches 
nearly  to  the  ground,  and  looks  like  the  dwindling 
remnant  of  a  greater  race. 

Beyond  the  woods,  the  path  led  us  by  a  colored 
man's  habitation, — a  little,  low  frame  house,  on  a 
knoll,  surrounded  by  the  quaint  devices  and  rude 
makeshifts  of  these  quaint  and  rude  people.  A 
few  poles  stuck  in  the  ground,  clapboarded  with 
cedar-boughs  and  cornstalks,  and  supporting  a  roof 
of  the  same,  gave  shelter  to  a  rickety  one-horse 
wagon  and  some  farm  implements.  Near  this  there 
was  a  large,  compact  tent,  made  entirely  of  corn 
stalks,  with,  for  door,  a  bundle  of  the  same,  in  the 
dry,  warm,  nest-like  interior  of  which  the  husking 
of  the  corn  crop  seemed  to  have  taken  place.  A 
few  rods  farther  on,  we  passed  through  another 
humble  dooryard,  musical  with  dogs  and  dusky 
with  children.  We  crossed  here  the  outlying  fields 
of  a  large,  thrifty,  well-kept-looking  farm  with  a 
showy,  highly  ornamental  frame  house  in  the  centre. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE  21 

There  was  even  a  park  with  deer,  and  among  the 
gayly  painted  outbuildings  I  noticed  a  fancy  dove 
cote,  with  an  immense  flock  of  doves  circling  above 
it ;  some  whiskey-dealer  from  the  city,  we  were  told, 
trying  to  take  the  poison  out  of  his  money  by  agri 
culture. 

We  next  passed  through  some  woods,  when  we 
emerged  into  a  broad,  sunlit,  fertile-looking  valley, 
called  Oxen  Run.  We  stooped  down  and  drank  of 
its  clear  white-pebbled  stream,  in  the  veritable  spot, 
I  suspect,  where  the  oxen  do.  There  were  clouds 
of  birds  here  on  the  warm  slopes,  with  the  usual 
sprinkling  along  the  bushy  margin  of  the  stream  of 
scarlet  grosbeaks.  The  valley  of  Oxen  Eun  has 
many  good-looking  farms,  with  old  picturesque 
houses,  and  loose  rambling  barns,  such  as  artists 
love  to  put  into  pictures. 

But  it  is  a  little  awkward  to  go  east.  It  always 
seems  left-handed.  I  think  this  is  the  feeling  of 
all  walkers,  and  that  Thoreau's  experience  in  this 
respect  was  not  singular.  The  great  magnet  is  the 
sun,  and  we  follow  him.  I  notice  that  people  lost 
in  the  woods  work  to  the  westward.  When  one 
comes  out  of  his  house  and  asks  himself,  "Which 
way  shall  I  walk  ? "  and  looks  up  and  down  and 
around  for  a  sign  or  a  token,  does  he  not  nine  times 
out  of  ten  turn  to  the  west?  He  inclines  this  way 
as  surely  as  the  willow  wand  bends  toward  the 
water.  There  is  something  more  genial  and  friendly 
in  this  direction. 

Occasionally  in  winter  I  experience  a  southern 


22  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

inclination,  and  cross  Long  Bridge  and  rendezvous 
for  the  day  in  some  old  earthwork  on  the  Virginia 
hills.  The  roads  are  not  so  inviting  in  this  direc 
tion,  but  the  line  of  old  forts  with  rabbits  burrowing 
in  the  bomb-proofs,  and  a  magazine,  or  officers' 
quarters  turned  into  a  cow  stable  by  colored  squat 
ters,  form  an  interesting  feature.  But,  whichever 
way  I  go,  I  am  glad  I  came.  All  roads  lead  up  to 
the  Jerusalem  the  walker  seeks.  There  is  every 
where  the  vigorous  and  masculine  winter  air,  and 
the  impalpable  sustenance  the  mind  draws  from  all 
natural  forms. 


n 

THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD 

Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

/OCCASIONALLY  on  the  sidewalk,  amid  the 
^-^  dapper,  swiftly-moving,  high-heeled  boots  and 
gaiters,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  naked  human  foot. 
Nimbly  it  scuffs  along,  the  toes  spread,  the  sides 
flatten,  the  heel  protrudes;  it  grasps  the  curbing, 
or  bends  to  the  form  of  the  uneven  surfaces,  —  a 
thing  sensuous  and  alive,  that  seems  to  take  cogni 
zance  of  whatever  it  touches  or  passes.  How  primi 
tive  and  uncivil  it  looks  in  such  company,  —  a  real 
barbarian  in  the  parlor !  We  are  so  unused  to  the 
human  anatomy,  to  simple,  unadorned  nature,  that 
it  looks  a  little  repulsive;  but  it  is  beautiful  for  all 
that.  Though  it  be  a  black  foot  and  an  unwashed 
foot,  it  shall  be  exalted.  It  is  a  thing  of  life  amid 
leather,  a  free  spirit  amid  cramped,  a  wild  bird 
amid  caged,  an  athlete  amid  consumptives.  It  is 
the  symbol  of  my  order,  the  Order  of  Walkers. 
That  unhampered,  vitally  playing  piece  of  anatomy 
is  the  type  of  the  pedestrian,  man  returned  to  first 
principles,  in  direct  contact  and  intercourse  with 
the  earth  and  the  elements,  his  faculties  unsheathed. 


24  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

his  mind  plastic,  his  body  toughened,  his  heart 
light,  his  soul  dilated;  while  those  cramped  and 
distorted  members  in  the  calf  and  kid  are  the  unfor 
tunate  wretches  doomed  to  carriages  and  cushions. 

I  am  not  going  to  advocate  the  disuse  of  boots 
and  shoes,  or  the  abandoning  of  the  improved  modes 
of  travel;  but  I  am  going  to  brag  as  lustily  as  I  can 
on  behalf  of  the  pedestrian,  and  show  how  all  the 
shining  angels  second  and  accompany  the  man  who 
goes  afoot,  while  all  the  dark  spirits  are  ever  look 
ing  out  for  a  chance  to  ride. 

When  I  see  the  discomforts  that  able-bodied 
American  men  will  put  up  with  rather  than  go  a 
mile  or  half  a  mile  on  foot,  the  abuses  they  will 
tolerate  and  encourage,  crowding  the  street  car  on 
a  little  fall  in  the  temperature  or  the  appearance  of 
an  inch  or  two  of  snow,  packing  up  to  overflowing, 
dangling  to  the  straps,  treading  on  each  other's 
toes,  breathing  each  other's  breaths,  crushing  the 
women  and  children,  hanging  by  tooth  and  nail  to 
a  square  inch  of  the  platform,  imperiling  their  limbs 
and  killing  the  horses,  —  I  think  the  commonest 
tramp  in  the  street  has  good  reason  to  felicitate 
himself  on  his  rare  privilege  of  going  afoot.  In 
deed,  a  race  that  neglects  or  despises  this  primitive 
gift,  that  fears  the  touch  of  the  soil,  that  has  no 
footpaths,  no  community  of  ownership  in  the  land 
which  they  imply,  that  warns  off  the  walker  as  a 
trespasser,  that  knows  no  way  but  the  highway, 
the  carriage-way,  that  forgets  the  stile,  the  foot 
bridge,  that  even  ignores  the  rights  of  the  pedes- 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF  THE  ROAD  25 

trian  in  the  public  road,  providing  no  escape  for 
him  but  in  the  ditch  or  up  the  bank,  is  in  a  fair 
way  to  far  more  serious  degeneracy. 

Shakespeare  makes  the  chief  qualification  of  the 
walker  a  merry  heart:  — 

"  Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a; 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

The  human  body  is  a  steed  that  goes  freest  and 
longest  under  a  light  rider,  and  the  lightest  of  all 
riders  is  a  cheerful  heart.  Your  sad,  or  morose,  or 
embittered,  or  preoccupied  heart  settles  heavily  into 
the  saddle,  and  the  poor  beast,  the  body,  breaks 
down  the  first  mile.  Indeed,  the  heaviest  thing  in 
the  world  is  a  heavy  heart.  Next  to  that,  the  most 
burdensome  to  the  walker  is  a  heart  not  in  perfect 
sympathy  and  accord  with  the  body,  — a  reluctant 
or  unwilling  heart.  The  horse  and  rider  must  not 
only  both  be  willing  to  go  the  same  way,  but  the 
rider  must  lead  the  way  and  infuse  his  own  light 
ness  and  eagerness  into  the  steed.  Herein  is  no 
doubt  our  trouble,  and  one  reason  of  the  decay  of 
the  noble  art  in  this  country.  We  are  unwilling 
walkers.  We  are  not  innocent  and  simple-hearted 
enough  to  enjoy  a  walk.  We  have  fallen  from  that 
state  of  grace  which  capacity  to  enjoy  a  walk  im 
plies.  It  cannot  be  said  that  as  a  people  we  are  so 
positively  sad,  or  morose,  or  melancholic  as  that  we 
are  vacant  of  that  sportiveness  and  surplusage  of 
animal  spirits  that  characterized  our  ancestors,  and 


26  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

that  springs  from  full  and  harmonious  life,  — a 
sound  heart  in  accord  with  a  sound  body.  A  man 
must  invest  himself  near  at  hand  and  in  common 
things,  and  be  content  with  a  steady  and  moderate 
return,  if  he  would  know  the  blessedness  of  a  cheer 
ful  heart  and  the  sweetness  of  a  walk  over  the  round 
earth.  This  is  a  lesson  the  American  has  yet  to 
learn,  —  capability  of  amusement  on  a  low  key.  He 
expects  rapid  and  extraordinary  returns.  He  would 
make  the  very  elemental  laws  pay  usury.  He  has 
nothing  to  invest  in  a  walk;  it  is  too  slow,  too 
cheap.  We  crave  the  astonishing,  the  exciting,  the 
far  away,  and  do  not  know  the  highways  of  the  gods 
when  we  see  them,  —  always  a  sign  of  the  decay  of 
the  faith  and  simplicity  of  man. 

If  I  say  to  my  neighbor,  "Come  with  me,  I  have 
great  wonders  to  show  you,"  he  pricks  up  his  ears 
and  comes  forthwith;  but  when  I  take  him  on  the 
hills  under  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun,  or  along  the 
country  road,  our  footsteps  lighted  by  the  moon  and 
stars,  and  say  to  him,  "Behold,  these  are  the  won 
ders,  these  are  the  circuits  of  the  gods,  this  we  now 
tread  is  a  morning  star,"  he  feels  defrauded,  and  as 
if  I  had  played  him  a  trick.  And  yet  nothing  less 
than  dilatation  and  enthusiasm  like  this  is  the  badge 
of  the  master  walker. 

If  we  are  not  sad,  we  are  careworn,  hurried,  dis 
contented,  mortgaging  the  present  for  the  promise 
of  the  future.  If  we  take  a  walk,  it  is  as  we 
take  a  prescription,  with  about  the  same  relish  and 
with  about  the  same  purpose;  and  the  more  the 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   ROAD  27 

iatigiie  the  greater  our  faith  in  the  virtue  of  the 
medicine. 

Of  these  gleesome  saunters  over  the  hills  in 
spring,  or  those  sallies  of  the  body  in  winter,  those 
excursions  into  space  when  the  foot  strikes  fire  at 
every  step,  when  the  air  tastes  like  a  new  and  finer 
mixture,  when  we  accumulate  force  and  gladness  as 
we  go  along,  when  the  sight  of  objects  by  the  road 
side  and  of  the  fields  and  woods  pleases  more  than 
pictures  or  than  all  the  art  in  the  world, — those 
ten  or  twelve  mile  dashes  that  are  but  the  wit  and 
effluence  of  the  corporeal  powers,  — of  such  diver 
sion  and  open  road  entertainment,  I  say,  most  of  us 
know  very  little. 

I  notice  with  astonishment  that  at  our  fashionable 
watering-places  nobody  walks;  that,  of  all  those  vast 
crowds  of  health-seekers  and  lovers  of  country  air, 
you  can  never  catch  one  in  the  fields  or  woods,  or 
guilty  of  trudging  along  the  country  road  with  dust 
on  his  shoes  and  sun-tan  on  his  hands  and  face. 
The  sole  amusement  seems  to  be  to  eat  and  dress 
and  sit  about  the  hotels  and  glare  at  each  other. 
The  men  look  bored,  the  women  look  tired,  and  all 
seem  to  sigh,  "O  Lord!  what  shall  we  do  to  be 
happy  and  not  be  vulgar  ? "  Quite  different  from 
our  British  cousins  across  the  water,  who  have 
plenty  of  amusement  and  hilarity,  spending  most 
of  the  time  at  their  watering-places  in  the  open 
air,  strolling,  picnicking,  boating,  climbing,  briskly 
walking,  apparently  with  little  fear  of  sun-tan  or  of 
compromising  their  "gentility." 


28  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

It  is  indeed  astonishing  with  what  ease  and  hilar 
ity  the  English  walk.  To  an  American  it  seems  a 
kind  of  infatuation.  When  Dickens  was  in  this 
country,  I  imagine  the  aspirants  to  the  honor  of  a 
walk  with  him  were  not  numerous.  In  a  pedestrian 
tour  of  England  by  an  American,  I  read  that,  "  after 
breakfast  with  the  Independent  minister,  he  walked 
with  us  for  six  miles  out  of  town  upon  our  road. 
Three  little  boys  and  girls,  the  youngest  six  years 
old,  also  accompanied  us.  They  were  romping  and 
rambling  about  all  the  while,  and  their  morning 
walk  must  have  been  as  much  as  fifteen  miles;  but 
they  thought  nothing  of  it,  and  when  we  parted 
were  apparently  as  fresh  as  when  they  started,  and 
very  loath  to  return." 

I  fear,  also,  the  American  is  becoming  disquali 
fied  for  the  manly  art  of  walking  by  a  falling  off  in 
the  size  of  his  foot.  He  cherishes  and  cultivates 
this  part  of  his  anatomy,  and  apparently  thinks  his 
taste  and  good  breeding  are  to  be  inferred  from  its 
diminutive  size.  A  small,  trim  foot,  well  booted 
or  gaitered,  is  the  national  vanity.  How  we  stare 
at  the  big  feet  of  foreigners,  and  wonder  what  may 
be  the  price  of  leather  in  those  countries,  and  where 
all  the  aristocratic  blood  is,  that  these  plebeian  ex 
tremities  so  predominate!  If  we  were  admitted  to 
the  confidences  of  the  shoemaker  to  Her  Majesty  or 
to  His  Royal  Highness,  no  doubt  we  would  modify 
our  views  upon  this  latter  point,  for  a  truly  large 
and  royal  nature  is  never  stunted  in  the  extremities  ; 
a  little  foot  never  yet  supported  a  great  character. 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF  THE  ROAD  29 

It  is  said  that  Englishmen  when  they  first  come 
to  this  country  are  for  some  time  under  the  impres 
sion  that  American  women  all  have  deformed  feet, 
they  are  so  coy  of  them  and  so  studiously  careful  to 
keep  them  hid.  That  there  is  an  astonishing  differ 
ence  between  the  women  of  the  two  countries  in 
this  respect,  every  traveler  can  testify;  and  that 
there  is  a  difference  equally  astonishing  between  the 
pedestrian  habits  and  capabilities  of  the  rival  sisters, 
is  also  certain. 

The  English  pedestrian,  no  doubt,  has  the  advan 
tage  of  us  in  the  matter  of  climate;  for,  notwith 
standing  the  traditional  gloom  and  moroseness  of 
English  skies,  they  have  in  that  country  none  of 
those  relaxing,  sinking,  enervating  days,  of  which 
we  have  so  many  here,  and  which  seem  especially 
trying  to  the  female  constitution,  —  days  which 
withdraw  all  support  from  the  back  and  loins,  and 
render  walking  of  all  things  burdensome.  Theirs  is 
a  climate  of  which  it  has  been  said  that  "it  invites 
men  abroad  more  days  in  the  year  and  more  hours 
in  the  day  than  that  of  jany  other  country. " 

Then  their  land  is  threaded  with  paths  which 
invite  the  walker,  and  which  are  scarcely  less  im 
portant  than  the  highways.  I  heard  of  a  surly 
nobleman  near  London  who  took  it  into  his  head 
to  close  a  footpath  that  passed  through  his  estate 
near  his  house,  and  open  another  one  a  little  farther 
off.  The  pedestrians  objected;  the  matter  got  into 
the  courts,  and  after  protracted  litigation  the  aristo 
crat  was  beaten.  The  path  could  not  be  closed  or 


30  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

moved.  The  memory  of  man  ran  not  to  the  time 
when  there  was  not  a  footpath  there,  and  every 
pedestrian  should  have  the  right  of  way  there  still. 

I  remember  the  pleasure  I  had  in  the  path  that 
connects  Stratford-on-Avon  with  Shottery,  Shake 
speare's  path  when  he  went  courting  Anne  Hatha 
way.  By  the  king's  highway  the  distance  is  some 
farther,  so  there  is  a  well-worn  path  along  the  hedge 
rows  and  through  the  meadows  and  turnip  patches. 
The  traveler  in  it  has  the  privilege  of  crossing  the 
railroad  track,  an  unusual  privilege  in  England,  and 
one  denied  to  the  lord  in  his  carriage,  who  must 
either  go  over  or  under  it.  (It  is  a  privilege,  is  it 
not,  to  be  allowed  the  forbidden,  even  if  it  be  the 
privilege  of  being  run  over  by  the  engine1?)  In 
strolling  over  the  South  Downs,  too,  I  was  delighted 
to  find  that  where  the  hill  was  steepest  some  bene 
factor  of  the  order  of  Avalkers  had  made  notches  in 
the  sward,  so  that  the  foot  could  bite  the  better  and 
firmer;  the  path  became  a  kind  of  stairway,  which 
I  have  no  doubt  the  plowman  respected. 

When  you  see  an  English  country  church  with 
drawn,  secluded,  out  of  the  reach  of  wheels,  stand 
ing  amid  grassy  graves  and  surrounded  by  noble 
trees,  approached  by  paths  and  shaded  lanes,  you 
appreciate  more  than  ever  this  beautiful  habit  of 
the  people.  Only  a  race  that  knows  how  to  use  its 
feet,  and  holds  footpaths  sacred,  could  put  such  a 
charm  of  privacy  and  humility  into  such  a  structure. 
I  think  I  should  be  tempted  to  go  to  church  myself 
if  I  saw  all  my  neighbors  starting  off  across  the 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF  THE   ROAD  31 

fields  or  along  paths  that  led  to  such  charmed  spots, 
and  was  sure  1  would  not  be  jostled  or  run  over  by 
the  rival  chariots  of  the  worshipers  at  the  temple 
doors.  I  think  this  is  what  ails  our  religion ;  humil 
ity  and  devoutness  of  heart  leave  one  when  he  lays 
by  his  walking  shoes  and  walking  clothes,  and  sets 
out  for  church  drawn  by  something. 
^  Indeed,  I  think  it  would  be  tantamount  to  an 
astonishing  revival  of  religion  if  the  people  would 
all  walk  to  church  on  Sunday  and  walk  home  again. 
Think  how  the  stones  would  preach  to  them  by  the 
wayside;  how  their  benumbed  minds  would  warm 
up  beneath  the  friction  of  the  gravel;  how  their 
vain  and  foolish  thoughts,  their  desponding  thoughts, 
their  besetting  demons  of  one  kind  and  another, 
would  drop  behind  them,  unable  to  keep  up  or  to 
endure  the  fresh  air !  They  would  walk  away  from 
their  ennui,  their  worldly  cares,  their  uncharitable- 
ness,  their  pride  of  dress;  for  these  devils  always 
want  to  ride,  while  the  simple  virtues  are  never  so 
happy  as  when  on  foot.  Let  us  walk  by  all  means; 
but  if  we  will  ride,  get  an  ass. 

Then  the  English  claim  that  they  are  a  more 
hearty  and  robust  people  than  we  are.  It  is  certain 
they  are  a  plainer  people,  have  plainer  tastes,  dress 
plainer,  build  plainer,  speak  plainer,  keep  closer  to 
facts,  wear  broader  shoes  and  coarser  clothes,  place 
a  lower  estimate  on  themselves,  etc. ,  —  all  of  which 
traits  favor  pedestrian  habits.  The  English  grandee 
is  not  confined  to  his  carriage;  but  if  the  American 
aristocrat  leaves  his,  he  is  ruined.  Oh  the  weari- 


32  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

ness,  the  emptiness,  the  plotting,  the  seeking  rest 
and  finding  none,  that  goes  by  in  the  carriages! 
while  your  pedestrian  is  always  cheerful,  alert,  re 
freshed,  with  his  heart  in  his  hand  and  his  hand 
free  to  all.  He  looks  down  upon  nobody;  he  is  on 
the  common  level.  His  pores  are  all  open,  his  cir 
culation  is  active,  his  digestion  good.  His  heart  is 
not  cold,  nor  his  faculties  asleep.  He  is  the  only 
real  traveler;  he  alone  tastes  the  "gay,  fresh  senti 
ment  of  the  road. "  He  is  not  isolated,  but  one  with 
things,  with  the  farms  and  industries  on  either 
hand.  The  vital,  universal  currents  play  through 
him.  He  knows  the  ground  is  alive;  he  feels  the 
pulses  of  the  wind,  and  reads  the  mute  language  of 
things.  His  sympathies  are  all  aroused;  his  senses 
are  continually  reporting  messages  to  his  mind. 
Wind,  frost,  rain,  heat,  cold,  are  something  to  him. 
He  is  not  merely  a  spectator  of  the  panorama  of 
nature,  but  a  participator  in  it.  He  experiences 
the  country  he  passes  through,  —  tastes  it,  feels  it, 
'/.  absorbs  it ;  the  traveler  in  his  fine  carriage  sees  it 
merely.  This  gives  the  fresh  charm  to  that  class 
of  books  that  may  be  called  "Views  Afoot,"  and  to 
the  narratives  of  hunters,  naturalists,  exploring  par 
ties,  etc.  The  walker  does  not  need  a  large  terri 
tory.  When  you  get  into  a  railway  car  you  want 
a  continent,  the  man  in  his  carriage  requires  a  town 
ship;  but  a  walker  like  Thoreau  finds  as  much  and 
more  along  the  shores  of  Walden  Pond.  The  for 
mer,  as  it  were,  has  merely  time  to  glance  at  the 
headings  of  the  chapters,  while  the  latter  need  not 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   ROAD  33 

miss  a  line,  and  Thoreau  reads  between  the  lines. 
Then  the  walker  has  the  privilege  of  the  fields,  the 
woods,  the  hills,  the  byways.  The  apples  by  the 
roadside  are  for  him,  and  the  berries,  and  the  spring 
of  water,  and  the  friendly  shelter ;  and  if  the  weather 
is  cold,  he  eats  the  frost  grapes  and  the  persimmons, 
or  even  the  white-meated  turnip,  snatched  from  the 
field  he  passed  through,  with  incredible  relish. 

Afoot  and  in  the  open  road,  one  has  a  fair  start 
in  life  at  last.  There  is  no  hindrance  now.  Let 
him  put  his  best  foot  forward.  He  is  on  the  broad 
est  human  plane.  This  is  on  the  level  of  all  the 
great  laws  and  heroic  deeds.  From  this  platform 
he  is  eligible  to  any  good  fortune.  He  was  sighing 
for  the  golden  age ;  let  him  walk  to  it.  Every  step 
brings  him  nearer.  The  youth  of  the  world  is  but 
a  few  days'  journey  distant.  Indeed,  I  know  per 
sons  who  think  they  have  walked  back  to  that  fresh 
aforetime  of  a  single  bright  Sunday  in  autumn  or 
early  spring.  Before  noon  they  felt  its  airs  upon 
their  cheeks,  and  by  nightfall,  on  the  banks  of  some 
quiet  stream,  or  along  some  path  in  the  wood,  or  on 
some  hilltop,  aver  they  have  heard  the  voices  and 
felt  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  that  so  enchanted 
the  early  races  of  men. 

I  think  if  I  could  walk  through  a  country  I 
should  not  only  see  many  things  and  have  adven 
tures  that  I  should  otherwise  miss,  but  that  I  should 
come  into  relations  with  that  country  at  first  hand, 
and  with  the  men  and  women  in  it,  in  a  way  that 
would  afford  the  deepest  satisfaction.  Hence  I  envy 


34  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  good  fortune  of  all  "walkers,  and  feel  like  join 
ing  myself  to  every  tramp  that  comes  along.  I  am 
jealous  of  the  clergyman  I  read  about  the  other  day 
who  footed  it  from  Edinburgh  to  London,  as  poor 
Effie  Deans  did,  carrying  her  shoes  in  her  hand  most 
of  the  way,  and  over  the  ground  that  rugged  Ben 
Jonson  strode,  larking  it  to  Scotland,  so  long  ago. 
I  read  with  longing  of  the  pedestrian  feats  of  college 
youths,  so  gay  and  light-hearted,  with  their  coarse 
shoes  on  their  feet  and  their  knapsacks  on  their 
backs.  It  would  have  been  a  good  draught  of  the 
rugged  cup  to  have  walked  with  Wilson  the  orni 
thologist,  deserted  by  his  companions,  from  Niagara 
to  Philadelphia  through  the  snows  of  winter.  I 
almost  wish  that  I  had  been  born  to  the  career  of  a 
German  mechanic,  that  I  might  have  had  that  de 
licious  adventurous  year  of  wandering  over  my  coun 
try  before  I  settled  down  to  work.  I  think  how 
much  richer  and  firmer-grained  life  would  be  to  me 
if  I  could  journey  afoot  through  Florida  and  Texas, 
or  follow  the  windings  of  the  Platte  or  the  Yellow 
stone,  or  stroll  through  Oregon,  or  browse  for  a  sea 
son  about  Canada.  In  the  bright  inspiring  days  of 
autumn  I  only  want  the  time  and  the  companion  to 
walk  back  to  the  natal  spot,  the  family  nest,  across 
two  States  and  into  the  mountains  of  a  third. 
What  adventures  we  would  have  by  the  way,  what 
hard  pulls,  what  prospects  from  hills,  what  specta 
cles  we  would  behold  of  night  and  day,  what  pas 
sages  with  dogs,  what  glances,  what  peeps  into  win 
dows,  what  characters  we  should  fall  in  with,  and 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   ROAD  35 

how  seasoned  and  hardy  we  should  arrive  at  our 
destination ! 

For  companion  I  should  want  a  veteran  of  the 
war!  Those  marches  put  something  into  him  I 
like.  Even  at  this  distance  his  mettle  is  but  little 
softened.  As  soon  as  he  gets  warmed  up  it  all 
comes  back  to  him.  He  catches  your  step  and  away 
you  go,  a  gay,  adventurous,  half -predatory  couple. 
How  quickly  he  falls  into  the  old  ways  of  jest  and 
anecdote  and  song!  You  may  have  known  him  for 
years  without  having  heard  him  hum  an  air,  or  more 
than  casually  revert  to  the  subject  of  his  experience 
during  the  war.  You  have  even  questioned  and 
cross-questioned  him  without  firing  the  train  you 
wished.  But  get  him  out  on  a  vacation  tramp,  and 
you  can  walk  it  all  out  of  him.  By  the  camp-fire  at 
night,  or  swinging  along  the  streams  by  day,  song, 
anecdote,  adventure,  come  to  the  surface,  and  you 
wonder  how  your  companion  has  kept  silent  so  long. 

It  is  another  proof  of  how  walking  brings  out  the 
true  character  of  a  man.  The  devil  never  yet  asked 
his  victims  to  take  a  walk  with  him.  You  will  not 
be  long  in  finding  your  companion  out.  All  dis 
guises  will  fall  away  from  him.  As  his  pores  open 
his  character  is  laid  bare.  His  deepest  and  most 
private  self  will  come  to  the  top.  It  matters  little 
whom  you  ride  with,  so  he  be  not  a  pickpocket;  for 
both  of  you  will,  very  likely,  settle  down  closer  and 
firmer  in  your  reserve,  shaken  down  like  a  measure 
of  corn  by  the  jolting  as  the  journey  proceeds.  But 
walking  is  a  more  vital  copartnership;  the  relation 


36  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

is  a  closer  and  more  sympathetic  one,  and  you  do 
not  feel  like  walking  ten  paces  with  a  stranger  with 
out  speaking  to  him. 

Hence  the  fastidiousness  of  the  professional  walker 
in  choosing  or  admitting  a  companion,  and  hence 
the  truth  of  a  remark  of  Emerson  that  you  will  gen 
erally  fare  better  to  take  your  dog  than  to  invite 
your  neighbor.  Your  cur-dog  is  a  true  pedestrian, 
and  your  neighbor  is  very  likely  a  small  politician. 
The  dog  enters  thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  the 
enterprise;  he  is  not  indifferent  or  preoccupied;  he 
is  constantly  sniffing  adventure,  laps  at  every  spring, 
looks  upon  every  field  and  wood  as  a  new  world  to 
be  explored,  is  ever  on  some  fresh  trail,  knows  some 
thing  important  will  happen  a  little  farther  on,  gazes 
with  the  true  wonder-seeing  eyes,  whatever  the  spot 
or  whatever  the  road  finds  it  good  to  be  there,  —  in 
short,  is  just  that  happy,  delicious,  excursive  vaga 
bond  that  touches  one  at  so  many  points,  and  whose 
human  prototype  in  a  companion  robs  miles  and 
leagues  of  half  their  power  to  fatigue. 

Persons  who  find  themselves  spent  in  a  short 
walk  to  the  market  or  the  post-office,  or  to  do  a 
little  shopping,  wonder  how  it  is  that  their  pedes 
trian  friends  can  compass  so  many  weary  miles  and 
not  fall  down  from  sheer  exhaustion;  ignorant  of 
the  fact  that  the  walker  is  a  kind  of  projectile  that 
drops  far  or  near  according  to  the  expansive  force 
of  the  motive  that  set  it  in  motion,  and  that  it  is 
easy  enough  to  regulate  the  charge  according  to  the 
distance  to  be  traversed.  If  I  am  loaded  to  carry 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   ROAD  37 

only  one  mile  and  am  compelled  to  walk  three,  I 
generally  feel  more  fatigue  than  if  I  had  walked  six 
under  the  proper  impetus  of  pread justed  resolution. 
In  other  words,  the  will  or  corporeal  mainspring, 
whatever  it  be,  is  capable  of  being  wound  up  to 
different  degrees  of  tension,  so  that  one  may  walk 
all  day  nearly  as  easy  as  half  that  time  if  he  is  pre 
pared  beforehand.  He  knows  his  task,  and  he 
measures  and  distributes  his  powers  accordingly.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  an  unknown  road  is  aways  a 
long  road.  We  cannot  cast  the  mental  eye  along  it 
and  see  the  end  from  the  beginning.  We  are  fight 
ing  in  the  dark,  and  cannot  take  the  measure  of  our 
foe.  Every  step  must  be  preordained  and  provided 
for  in  the  mind.  Hence  also  the  fact  that  to  van 
quish  one  mile  in  the  woods  seems  equal  to  compass 
ing  three  in  the  open  country.  The  furlongs  are 
ambushed,  and  we  magnify  them. 

Then,  again,  how  annoying  to  be  told  it  is  only 
five  miles  to  the  next  place  when  it  is  really  eight 
or  ten !  We  fall  short  nearly  half  the  distance,  and 
are  compelled  to  urge  and  roll  the  spent  ball  the 
rest  of  the  way.  In  such  a  case  walking  degener 
ates  from  a  fine  art  to  a  mechanic  art;  we  walk 
merely;  to  get  over  the  ground  becomes  the  one 
serious  and  engrossing  thought;  whereas  success  in 
walking  is  not  to  let  your  right  foot  know  what 
your  left  foot  doeth.  Your  heart  must  furnish  such 
music  that  in  keeping  time  to  it  your  feet  will  carry 
you  around  the  globe  without  knowing  it.  The 
walker  I  would  describe  takes  no  note  of  distance; 


38  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

his  walk  is  a  sally,  a  bonmot,  an  unspoken  jeu 
d' esprit;  the  ground  is  his  butt,  his  provocation; 
it  furnishes  him  the  resistance  his  body  craves;  he 
rebounds  upon  it,  he  glances  off  and  returns  again, 
and  uses  it  gayly  as  his  tool. 

I  do  not  think  I  exaggerate  the  importance  or  the 
charms  of  pedestrianism,  or  our  need  as  a  people  to 
cultivate  the  art.  I  think  it  would  tend  to  soften 
the  national  manners,  to  teach  us  the  meaning  of 
leisure,  to  acquaint  us  with  the  charms  of  the  open 
air,  to  strengthen  and  foster  the  tie  between  the 
race  and  the  land.  No  one  else  looks  out  upon  the 
world  so  kindly  and  charitably  as  the  pedestrian; 
no  one  else  gives  and  takes  so  much  from  the  coun 
try  he  passes  through.  Next  to  the  laborer  in  the 
fields,  the  walker  holds  the  closest  relation  to  the 
soil;  and  he  holds  a  closer  and  more  vital  relation 
to  nature  because  he  is  freer  and  his  mind  more  at 
leisure. 

Man  takes  root  at  his  feet,  and  at  best  he  is  no 
more  than  a  potted  plant  in  his  house  or  carriage 
till  he  has  established  communication  with  the  soil 
by  the  loving  and 'magnetic  touch  of  his  soles  to  it. 
Then  the  tie  of  association  is  born ;  then  spring 
those  invisible  fibres  and  rootlets  through  which 
character  comes  to  smack  of  the  soil,  and  which 
make  a  man  kindred  to  the  spot  of  earth  he  inhabits. 

The  roads  and  paths  you  have  walked  along  in 
summer  and  winter  weather,  the  fields  and  hills 
which  you  have  looked  upon  in  lightness  and  glad 
ness  of  heart,  where  fresh  thoughts  have  come  into 


THE   EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   ROAD  39 

your  mind,  or  some  noble  prospect  has  opened  be 
fore  you,  and  especially  the  quiet  ways  where  you 
have  walked  in  sweet  converse  with  your  friend, 
pausing  under  the  trees,  drinking  at  the  spring,  — 
henceforth  they  are  not  the  same;  a  new  charm  is 
added;  those  thoughts  spring  there  perennial,  your 
friend  walks  there  forever. 

We  have  produced  some  good  walkers  and  saun- 
terers,  and  some  noted  climbers;  but  as  a  staple 
recreation,  as  a  daily  practice,  the  mass  of  the  peo 
ple  dislike  and  despise  walking.  Thoreau  said  he 
was  a  good  horse,  but  a  poor  roadster.  I  chant  the 
virtues  of  the  roadster  as  well.  I  sing  of  the  sweet 
ness  of  gravel,  good  sharp  quartz-grit.  It  is  the 
proper  condiment  for  the  sterner  seasons,  and  many 
a  human  gizzard  would  be  cured  of  half  its  ills  by 
a  suitable  daily  allowance  of  it.  I  think  Thoreau 
himself  would  have  profited  immensely  by  it.  His 
diet  was  too  exclusively  vegetable.  A  man  cannot 
live  on  grass  alone.  If  one  has  been  a  lotus-eater 
all  summer,  he  must  turn  gravel-eater  in  the  fall 
and  winter.  Those  who  have  tried  it  know  that 
gravel  possesses  an  equal  though  an  opposite  charm. 
It  spurs  to  action.  The  foot  tastes  it  and  hence 
forth  rests  not.  The  joy  of  moving  and  surmount 
ing,  of  attrition  and  progression,  the  thirst  for 
space,  for  miles  and  leagues  of  distance,  for  sights 
and  prospects,  to  cross  mountains  and  thread  rivers, 
and  defy  frost,  heat,  snow,  danger,  difficulties, 
seizes  it;  and  from  that  day  forth  its  possessor  ia 
enrolled  in  the  noble  army  of  walkers. 


in 

THE   SNOW-WALKERS 

"1  TE  who  marvels  at  the  beauty  of  the  world  in 
— *-  summer  will  find  equal  cause  for  wonder  and 
admiration  in  winter.  It  is  true  the  pomp  and  the 
pageantry  are  swept  away,  but  the  essential  elements 
remain,  —  the  day  and  the  night,  the  mountain  and 
the  valley,  the  elemental  play  and  succession  and 
the  perpetual  presence  of  the  infinite  sky.  In  win 
ter  the  stars  seem  to  have  rekindled  their  fires,  the 
moon  achieves  a  fuller  triumph,  and  the  heavens 
wear  a  look  of  a  more  exalted  simplicity.  Summer 
is  more  wooing  and  seductive,  more  versatile  and 
human,  appeals  to  the  affections  and  the  sentiments, 
and  fosters  inquiry  and  the  art  impulse.  Winter  is 
of  a  more  heroic  cast,  and  addresses  the  intellect. 
The  severe  studies  and  disciplines  come  easier  in 
winter.  One  imposes  larger  tasks  upon  himself, 
and  is  less  tolerant  of  his  own  weaknesses. 

The  tendinous  part  of  the  mind,  so  to  speak,  is 
more  developed  in  winter;  the  fleshy,  in  summer. 
I  should  say  winter  had  given  the  bone  and  sinew 
to  Literature,  summer  the  tissues  and  blood. 

The  simplicity  of  winter  has  a  deep  moral.  The 
return  of  nature,  after  such  a  career  of  splendor  and 


42  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

prodigality,  to  habits  so  simple  and  austere,  is  not 
lost  either  upon  the  head  or  the  heart.  It  is  the 
philosopher  coming  back  from  the  banquet  and  the 
wine  to  a  cup  of  water  and  a  crust  of  bread. 

And  then  this  beautiful  masquerade  of  the  ele 
ments,  —  the  novel  disguises  our  nearest  friends  put 
on !  Here  is  another  rain  and  another  dew,  water 
that  will  not  flow,  nor  spill,  nor  receive  the  taint  of 
an  unclean  vessel.  And  if  we  see  truly,  the  same 
old  beneficence  and  willingness  to  serve  lurk  be 
neath  all. 

Look  up  at  the  miracle  of  the  falling  snow,  — 
the  air  a  dizzy  maze  of  whirling,  eddying  flakes, 
noiselessly  transforming  the  world,  the  exquisite 
crystals  dropping  in  ditch  and  gutter,  and  disguising 
in  the  same  suit  of  spotless  livery  all  objects  upon 
which  they  fall.  How  novel  and  fine  the  first 
drifts!  The  old,  dilapidated  fence  is  suddenly  set 
off  with  the  most  fantastic  ruffles,  scalloped  and 
fluted  after  an  unheard-of  fashion!  Looking  down 
a  long  line  of  decrepit  stone  wall,  in  the  trimming 
of  which  the  wind  had  fairly  run  riot,  I  saw,  as  for 
the  first  time,  what  a  severe  yet  master  artist  old 
Winter  is.  Ah,  a  severe  artist!  How  stern  the 
woods  look,  dark  and  cold  and  as  rigid  against  the 
horizon  as  iron ! 

All  life  and  action  upon  the  snow  have  an  added 
emphasis  and  significance.  Every  expression  is  un 
derscored.  Summer  has  few  finer  pictures  than  this 
winter  one  of  the  farmer  foddering  his  cattle  from 
a  stack  upon  the  clean  snow,  —  the  movement,  the 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  43 

sharply-defined  figures,  the  great  green  flakes  of 
hay,  the  long  file  of  patient  cows,  the  advance  just 
arriving  and  pressing  eagerly  for  the  choicest  mor 
sels,  and  the  bounty  and  providence  it  suggests. 
Or  the  chopper  in  the  woods,  —  the  prostrate  tree, 
the  white  new  chips  scattered  about,  his  easy  tri 
umph  over  the  cold,  coat  hanging  to  a  limb,  and 
the  clear,  sharp  ring  of  his  axe.  The  woods  are 
rigid  and  tense,  keyed  up  by  the  frost,  and  resound 
like  a  stringed  instrument.  Or  the  road- breakers, 
sallying  forth  with  oxen  and  sleds  in  the  still,  white 
world,  the  day  after  the  storm,  to  restore  the  lost 
track  and  demolish  the  beleaguering  drifts. 

All  sounds  are  sharper  in  winter;  the  air  trans 
mits  better.  At  night  I  hear  more  distinctly  the 
steady  roar  of  the  North  Mountain.  In  summer  it 
is  a  sort  of  complacent  purr,  as  the  breezes  stroke 
down  its  sides;  but  in  winter  always  the  same  low, 
sullen  growl. 

A  severe  artist!  No  longer  the  canvas  and  the 
pigments,  but  the  marble  and  the  chisel.  When 
the  nights  are  calm  and  the  moon  full,  I  go  out  to 
gaze  upon  the  wonderful  purity  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  snow.  The  air  is  full  of  latent  fire,  and 
the  cold  warms  me  —  after  a  different  fashion  from 
that  of  the  kitchen  stove.  The  world  lies  about  me 
in  a  "trance  of  snow."  The  clouds  are  pearly  and 
iridescent,  and  seem  the  farthest  possible  remove 
from  the  condition  of  a  storm,  —  the  ghosts  of 
clouds,  the  indwelling  beauty  freed  from  all  dross. 
I  see  the  hills,  bulging  with  great  drifts,  lift  them- 


44  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

selves  up  cold  and  white  against  the  sky,  the  black 
lines  of  fences  here  and  there  obliterated  by  the 
depth  of  the  snow.  Presently  a  fox  barks  away  up 
next  the  mountain,  and  I  imagine  I  can  almost  see 
him  sitting  there,  in  his  furs,  upon  the  illuminated 
surface,  and  looking  down  in  my  direction.  As  I 
listen,  one  answers  him  from  behind  the  woods  in 
the  valley.  What  a  wild  winter  sound,  wild  and 
weird,  up  among  the  ghostly  hills!  Since  the  wolf 
has  ceased  to  howl  upon  these  mountains,  and  the 
panther  to  scream,  there  is  nothing  to  be  compared 
Avith  it.  So  wild!  I  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  to  hear  it.  It  is  refreshing  to  the  ear,  and 
one  delights  to  know  that  such  wild  creatures  are 
among  us.  At  this  season  Nature  makes  the  most 
of  every  throb  of  life  that  can  withstand  her  sever 
ity.  How  heartily  she  indorses  this  fox !  In  what 
bold  relief  stand  out  the  lives  of  all  walkers  of  the 
snow!  The  snow  is  a  great  tell-tale,  and  blabs  as 
effectually  as  it  obliterates.  I  go  into  the  woods, 
and  know  all  that  has  happened.  I  cross  the  fields, 
and  if  only  a  mouse  has  visited  his  neighbor  the 
fact  is  chronicled. 

The  red  fox  is  the  only  species  that  abounds  in 
my  locality ;  the  little  gray  fox  seems  to  prefer  a 
more  rocky  and  precipitous  country,  and  a  less  rigor 
ous  climate ;  the  cross  fox  is  occasionally  seen,  and 
there  are  traditions  of  the  silver  gray  among  the 
oldest  hunters.  But  the  red  fox  is  the  sportsman's 
prize,  and  the  only  fur-bearer  worthy  of  note  in 
these  mountains.1  I  go  out  in  the  morning,  after 

i  A  spur  of  the  Catskills. 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  45 

a  fresh  fall  of  snow,  and  see  at  all  points  where  he 
has  crossed  the  road.  Here  he  has  leisurely  passed 
•within  rifle-range  of  the  house,  evidently  reconnoi 
tring  the  premises  with  an  eye  to  the  hen-roost. 
That  clear,  sharp  track,  —  there  is  no  mistaking  it 
for  the  clumsy  footprint  of  a  little  dog.  All  his 
wildness  and  agility  are  photographed  in  it.  Here 
he  has  taken  fright,  or  suddenly  recollected  an  en 
gagement,  and  in  long,  graceful  leaps,  barely  touch 
ing  the  fence,  has  gone  careering  up  the  hill  as  fleet 
as  the  wind. 

The  wild,  buoyant  creature,  how  beautiful  he  is! 
I  had  often  seen  his  dead  carcass,  and  at  a  distance 
had  witnessed  the  hounds  drive  him  across  the  upper 
fields;  but  the  thrill  and  excitement  of  meeting  him 
in  his  wild  freedom  in  the  woods  were  unknown  to 
me  till,  one  cold  winter  day,  drawn  thither  by  the 
baying  of  a  hound,  I  stood  near  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  waiting  a  renewal  of  the  sound,  that  I 
might  determine  the  course  of  the  dog  and  choose 
my  position,  —  stimulated  by  the  ambition  of  all 
young  Ximrods  to  bag  some  notable  game.  Long 
I  waited,  and  patiently,  till,  chilled  and  benumbed, 
I  Avas  about  to  turn  back,  when,  hearing  a  slight 
noise,  I  looked  up  and  beheld  a  most  superb  fox, 
loping  along  with  inimitable  grace  and  ease,  evi 
dently  disturbed,  but  not  pursued  by  the  hound, 
and  so  absorbed  in  his  private  meditations  that  he 
failed  to  see  me,  though  I  stood  transfixed  with 
amazement  and  admiration,  not  ten  yards  distant. 
I  took  his  measure  at  a  glance,  —  a  large  male,  with 


46  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

dark  legs,  and  massive  tail  tipped  with  white,  - —  a 
most  magnificent  creature;  but  so  astonished  and 
fascinated  was  I  by  this  sudden  appearance  and 
matchless  beauty,  that  not  till  I  had  caught  the  last 
glimpse  of  him,  as  he  disappeared  over  a  knoll,  did 
I  awake  to  my  duty  as  a  sportsman,  and  realize 
what  an  opportunity  to  distinguish  myself  I  had 
unconsciously  let  slip.  I  clutched  my  gun,  half 
angrily,  as  if  it  was  to  blame,  and  went  home  out 
of  humor  with  myself  and  all  fox-kind.  But  I 
have  since  thought  better  of  the  experience,  and 
concluded  that  I  bagged  the  game  after  all,  the  best 
part  of  it,  and  fleeced  Reynard  of  something  more 
valuable  than  his  fur,  without  his  knowledge. 

This  is  thoroughly  a  winter  sound,  —  this  voice 
of  the  hound  upon  the  mountain,  —  and  one  that  is 
music  to  many  ears.  The  long  trumpet-like  bay, 
heard  for  a  mile  or  more,  —  now  faintly  back  to  the 
deep  recesses  of  the  mountain,  —  now  distinct,  but 
still  faint,  as  the  hound  comes  over  some  prominent 
point  and  the  wind  favors,  —  anon  entirely  lost  in 
the  gully,  —  then  breaking  out  again  much  nearer, 
and  growing  more  and  more  pronounced  as  the  dog 
approaches,  till,  when  he  comes  around  the  brow  of 
the  mountain,  directly  above  you,  the  barking  is 
loud  and  sharp.  On  he  goes  along  the  northern 
spur,  his  voice  rising  and  sinking  as  the  wind  and 
the  lay  of  the  ground  modify  it,  till  lost  to  hearing. 

The  fox  usually  keeps  half  a  mile  ahead,  regulat 
ing  his  speed  by  that  of  the  hound,  occasionally 
pausing  a  moment  to  divert  himself  with  a  mouse, 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  47 

or  to  contemplate  the  landscape,  or  to  listen  for  his 
pursuer.  If  the  hound  press  him  too  closely,  he 
leads  off  from  mountain  to  mountain,  and  so  gen 
erally  escapes  the  hunter;  but  if  the  pursuit  be 
slow,  he  plays  about  some  ridge  or  peak,  and  falls 
a  prey,  though  not  an  easy  one,  to  the  experienced 
sportsman. 

A  most  spirited  and  exciting  chase  occurs  when  the 
farm-dog  gets  close  upon  one  in  the  open  field,  as 
sometimes  happens  in  the  early  morning.  The  fox 
relies  so  confidently  upon  his  superior  speed,  that  I 
imagine  he  half  tempts  the  dog  to  the  race.  But  if 
the  dog  be  a  smart  one,  and  their  course  lies  down 
hill,  over  smooth  ground,  Reynard  must  put  his 
best  foot  forward,  and  then  sometimes  suffer  the 
ignominy  of  being  run  over  by  his  pursuer,  who, 
however,  is  quite  unable  to  pick  him  up,  owing  to 
the  speed.  But  when  they  mount  the  hill,  or  enter 
the  woods,  the  superior  nimbleness  and  agility  of  the 
fox  tell  at  once,  and  he  easily  leaves  the  dog  far  in 
his  rear.  For  a  cur  less  than  his  own  size  he  mani 
fests  little  fear,  especially  if  the  two  meet  alone, 
remote  from  the  house.  In  such  cases,  I  have  seen 
first  one  turn  tail,  then  the  other. 

A  novel  spectacle  often  occurs  in  summer,  when 
the  female  has  young.  You  are  rambling  on  the 
mountain,  accompanied  by  your  dog,  when  you  are 
startled  by  that  wild,  half- threatening  squall,  and 
in  a  moment  perceive  your  dog,  with  inverted  tail, 
and  shame  and  confusion  in  his  looks,  sneaking 
toward  you,  the  old  fox  but  a  few  rods  in  his  rear. 


48  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

You  speak  to  him  sharply,  when  he  bristles  up, 
turns  about,  and,  barking,  starts  off  vigorously,  as 
if  to  wipe  out  the  dishonor;  but  in  a  moment  comes 
sneaking  back  more  abashed  than  ever,  and  owns 
himself  unworthy  to  be  called  a  dog.  The  fox  fairly 
shames  him  out  of  the  woods.  The  secret  of  the 
matter  is  her  sex,  though  her  conduct,  for  the  honor 
of  the  fox  be  it  said,  seems  to  be  prompted  only  by 
solicitude  for  the  safety  of  her  young. 

One  of  the  most  notable  features  of  the  fox  is  his 
large  and  massive  tail.  Seen  running  on  the  snow 
at  a  distance,  his  tail  is  quite  as  conspicuous  as  his 
body;  and,  so  far  from  appearing  a  burden,  seems 
to  contribute  to  his  lightness  and  buoyancy.  It 
softens  the  outline  of  his  movements,  and  repeats  or 
continues  to  the  eye  the  ease  and  poise  of  his  car 
riage.  But,  pursued  by  the  hound  on  a  wet,  thawy 
day,  it  often  becomes  so  heavy  and  bedraggled  as  to 
prove  a  serious  inconvenience,  and  compels  him  to 
take  refuge  in  his  den.  He  is  very  loath  to  do  this ; 
both  his  pride  and  the  traditions  of  his  race  stimu 
late  him  to  run  it  out,  and  win  by  fair  superiority 
of  wind  and  speed;  and  only  a  wound  or  a  heavy 
and  moppish  tail  will  drive  him  to  avoid  the  issue 
in  this  manner. 

To  learn  his  surpassing  shrewdness  and  cunning, 
attempt  to  take  him  with  a  trap.  Rogue  that  he 
is,  he  always  suspects  some  trick,  and  one  must  be 
more  of  a  fox  than  he  is  himself  to  overreach  him. 
At  first  sight  it  would  appear  easy  enough.  With 
apparent  indifference  he  crosses  your  path,  or  walks 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  49 

in  your  footsteps  in  the  field,  or  travels  along  the 
beaten  highway,  or  lingers  in  the  vicinity  of  stacks 
and  remote  barns.  Carry  the  carcass  of  a  pig,  or  a 
fowl,  or  a  dog,  to  a  distant  field  in  midwinter,  and 
in  a  few  nights  his  tracks  cover  the  sn$w  about  it. 

The  inexperienced  country  youth,  misled  by  this 
seeming  carelessness  of  Reynard,  suddenly  conceives 
a  project  to  enrich  himself  with  fur,  and  wonders 
that  the  idea  has  not  occurred  to  him  before,  and  to 
others.  I  knew  a  youthful  yeoman  of  this  kind, 
who  imagined  he  had  found  a  mine  of  wealth  on 
discovering  on  a  remote  side-hill,  between  two  woods, 
a  dead  porker,  upon  which  it  appeared  all  the  foxes 
of  the  neighborhood  had  nightly  banqueted.  The 
clouds  were  burdened  with  snow;  and  as  the  first 
flakes  commenced  to  eddy  down,  he  set  out,  trap 
and  broom  in  hand,  already  counting  over  in  imagi 
nation  the  silver  quarters  he  would  receive  for  his 
first  fox-skin.  With  the  utmost  care,  and  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  he  removed  enough  of  the  trodden 
snow  to  allow  the  trap  to  sink  below  the  surface. 
Then,  carefully  sifting  the  light  element  over  it 
and  sweeping  his  tracks  full,  he  quickly  withdrew, 
laughing  exultingly  over  the  little  surprise  he  had 
prepared  for  the  cunning  rogue.  The  elements  con 
spired  to  aid  him,  and  the  falling  snow  rapidly  oblit 
erated  all  vestiges  of  his  work.  The  next  morning 
at  dawn  he  was  on  his  way  to  bring  in  his  fur. 
The  snow  had  done  its  work  effectually,  and,  he 
believed,  had  kept  his  secret  well.  Arrived  in  sight 
of  the  locality,  he  strained  his  vision  to  make  out 


50  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

his  prize  lodged  against  the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  Approaching  nearer,  the  surface  was  unbroken, 
and  doubt  usurped  the  place  of  certainty  in  his 
mind.  A  slight  mound  marked  the  site  of  the 
porker,  but  Jhere  was  no  footprint  near  it.  Look 
ing  up  the  hill,  he  saw  where  Reynard  had  walked 
leisurely  down  toward  his  wonted  bacon  till  within 
a  few  yards  of  it,  when  he  had  wheeled,  and  with 
prodigious  strides  disappeared  in  the  woods.  The 
young  trapper  saw  at  a  glance  what  a  comment  this 
was  upon  his  skill  in  the  art,  and,  indignantly  ex 
huming  the  iron,  he  walked  home  with  it,  the  stream 
of  silver  quarters  suddenly  setting  in  another  direc 
tion. 

The  successful  trapper  commences  in  the  fall,  or 
before  the  first  deep  snow.  In  a  field  not  too  re 
mote,  with  an  old  axe  he  cuts  a  small  place,  say 
ten  inches  by  fourteen,  in  the  frozen  ground,  and 
removes  the  earth  to  the  depth  of  three  or  four 
inches,  then  fills  the  cavity  with  dry  ashes,  in 
which  are  placed  bits  of  roasted  cheese.  Reynard 
is  very  suspicious  at  first,  and  gives  the  place  a 
wide  berth.  It  looks  like  design,  and  he  will  see 
how  the  thing  behaves  before  he  approaches  too 
near.  But  the  cheese  is  savory  and  the  cold  severe. 
He  ventures  a  little  closer  every  night,  until  he 
can  reach  and  pick  a  piece  from  the  surface.  Em 
boldened  by  success,  like  other  mortals,  he  pres 
ently  digs  freely  among  the  ashes,  and,  finding  a 
fresh  supply  of  the  delectable  morsels  every  night, 
is  soon  thrown  off  his  guard  and  his  suspicions  quite 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  51 

/ulled.  After  a  week  of  baiting  in  this  manner, 
and  on  the  eve  of  a  light  fall  of  snow,  the  trapper 
carefully  conceals  his  trap  in  the  bed,  first  smoking 
it  thoroughly  with  hemlock  boughs  to  kill  or  neu 
tralize  all  smell  of  the  iron.  If  the  weather  favors 
and  the  proper  precautions  have  been  taken,  he 
may  succeed,  though  the  chances  are  still  greatly 
against  him. 

Reynard  is  usually  caught  very  lightly,  seldom 
more  than  the  ends  of  his  toes  being  between  the 
jaws.  He  sometimes  works  so  cautiously  as  to 
spring  the  trap  without  injury  even  to  his  toes,  or 
may  remove  the  cheese  night  after  night  without 
even  springing  it.  I  knew  an  old  trapper  who,  on 
finding  himself  outwitted  in  this  manner,  tied  a  bit 
of  cheese  to  the  pan,  and  next  morning  had  poor 
Reynard  by  the  jaw.  The  trap  is  not  fastened,  but 
only  incumbered  with  a  clog,  and  is  all  the  more 
sure  in  its  hold  by  yielding  to  every  effort  of  the 
animal  to  extricate  himself. 

When  Reynard  sees  his  captor  approaching,  he 
would  fain  drop  into  a  mouse-hole  to  render  himself 
invisible.  He  crouches  to  the  ground  and  remains 
perfectly  motionless  until  he  perceives  himself  dis 
covered,  when  he  makes  one  desperate  and  final 
effort  to  escape,  but  ceases  all  struggling  as  you 
come  up,  and  behaves  in  a  manner  that  stamps  him 
a  very  timid  warrior,  —  cowering  to  the  earth  with 
a  mingled  look  of  shame,  guilt,  and  abject  fear.  A 
young  farmer  told  me  of  tracing  one  with  his  trap 
to  the  border  of  a  wood,  where  he  discovered  the 


52  ,      WINTER   SUNSHINE 

cunning  rogue  trying  to  hide  by  embracing  a  small 
tree.  Most  animals,  when  taken  in  a  trap,  show 
fight;  but  Reynard  has  more  faith  in  the  nimble- 
ness  of  his  feet  than  in  the  terror  of  his  teeth. 

Entering  the  woods,  the  number  and  variety  of 
the  tracks  contrast  strongly  with  the  rigid,  frozen 
aspect  of  things.  Warm  jets  of  life  still  shoot  and 
play  amid  this  snowy  desolation.  Fox-tracks  are 
far  less  numerous  than  in  the  fields;  but  those  of 
hares,  skunks,  partridges,  squirrels,  and  mice  abound. 
The  mice  tracks  are  very  pretty,  and  look  like  a 
sort  of  fantastic  stitching  on  the  coverlid  of  the 
snow.  One  is  curious  to  know  what  brings  these 
tiny  creatures  from  their  retreats;  they  do  not  seem 
to  be  in  quest  of  food,  but  rather  to  be  traveling 
about  for  pleasure  or  sociability,  though  always  going 
post-haste,  and  linking  stump  with  stump  and  tree 
with  tree  by  fine,  hurried  strides.  That  is  when 
they  travel  openly;  but  they  have  hidden  passages 
and  winding  galleries  under  the  snow,  which  un 
doubtedly  are  their  main  avenues  of  communication. 
Here  and  there  these  passages  rise  so  near  the  sur 
face  as  to  be  covered  by  only  a  frail  arch  of  snow, 
and  a  slight  ridge  betrays  their  course  to  the  eye. 
I  know  him  well.  He  is  known  to  the  farmer  as 
the  "deer  mouse,"  to  the  naturalist  as  the  white- 
footed  mouse,  — a  very  beautiful  creature,  nocturnal 
in  his  habits,  with  large  ears,  and  large,  fine  eyes, 
full  of  a  wild,  harmless  look.  He  is  daintily 
marked,  with  white  feet  and  a  white  belly.  When 
disturbed  by  day  he  is  very  easily  captured,  having 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  53 

none  of  the  cunning  or  viciousness  of  the  common 
Old  World  mouse. 

It  is  he  who,  high  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  some 
tree,  lays  by  a  store  of  beechnuts  for  winter  use. 
Every  nut  is  carefully  shelled,  and  the  cavity  that 
serves  as  storehouse  lined  with  grass  and  leaves. 
The  wood-chopper  frequently  squanders  this  precious 
store.  I  have  seen  half  a  peck  taken  from  one 
tree,  as  clean  and  white  as  if  put  up  by  the  most 
delicate  hands,  — as  they  were.  How  long  it  must 
have  taken  the  little  creature  to  collect  this  quan 
tity,  to  hull  them  one  by  one,  and  convey  them 
up  to  his  fifth-story  chamber!  He  is  not  confined 
to  the  woods,  but  is  quite  as  common  in  the  fields, 
particularly  in  the  fall,  amid  the  corn  and  potatoes. 
When  routed  by  the  plow,  I  have  seen  the  old  one 
take  flight  with  half  a  dozen  young  hanging  to  her 
teats,  and  with  such  reckless  speed  that  some  of  the 
young  would  lose  their  hold  and  fly  off  amid  the 
weeds.  Taking  refuge  in  a  stump  with  the  rest  of 
her  family,  the  anxious  mother  would  presently 
come  back  and  hunt  up  the  missing  ones. 

The  snow-walkers  are  mostly  night-walkers  also, 
and  the  record  they  leave  upon  the  snow  is  the  main 
clew  one  has  to  their  life  and  doings.  The  hare  is 
nocturnal  in  its  habits,  and  though  a  very  lively 
creature  at  night,  with  regular  courses  and  run- ways 
through  the  wood,  is  entirely  quiet  by  day.  Timid 
as  he  is,  he  makes  little  effort  to  conceal  himself, 
usually  squatting  beside  a  log,  stump,  or  tree,  and 
Beeming  to  avoid  rocks  and  ledges  where  he  might 


54  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

be  partially  housed  from  the  cold  and  the  snow,  but 
where  also  —  and  this  consideration  undoubtedly 
determines  his  choice  —  he  would  be  more  apt  to 
fall  a  prey  to  his  enemies.  In  this,  as  well  as  in 
many  other  respects,  he  differs  from  the  rabbit 
proper:  he  never  burrows  in  the  ground,  or  takes 
refuge  in  a  den  or  hole,  when  pursued.  If  caught 
in  the  open  fields,  he  is  much  confused  and  easily 
overtaken  by  the  dog;  but  in  the  woods,  he  leaves 
him  at  a  bound.  In  summer,  when  first  disturbed, 
he  beats  the  ground  violently  with  his  feet,  by 
which  means  he  would  express  to  you  his  surprise 
or  displeasure ;  it  is  a  dumb  way  he  has  of  scolding. 
After  leaping  a  few  yards,  he  pauses  an  instant,  as 
if  to  determine  the  degree  of  danger,  and  then  hur 
ries  away  with  a  much  lighter  tread. 

His  feet  are  like  great  pads,  and  his  track  has 
little  of  the  sharp,  articulated  expression  of  Rey 
nard's,  or  of  animals  that  climb  or  dig.  Yet  it  is 
very  pretty  like  all  the  rest,  and  tells  its  own  tale. 
There  is  nothing  bold  or  vicious  or  vulpine  in  it, 
and  his  timid,  harmless  character  is  published  at 
every  leap.  He  abounds  in  dense  woods,  preferring 
localities  filled  with  a  small  undergrowth  of  beech 
and  birch,  upon  the  bark  of  which  he  feeds.  Nature 
is  rather  partial  to  him,  and  matches  his  extreme 
local  habits  and  character  with  a  suit  that  corre 
sponds  with  his  surroundings,  —  reddish  gray  in 
summer  and  white  in  winter. 

The  sharp-rayed  track  of  the  partridge  adds  an 
other  figure  to  this  fantastic  embroidery  upon  the 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  55 

winter  snow.  Her  course  is  a  clear,  strong  line, 
sometimes  quite  wayward,  but  generally  very  direct, 
steering  for  the  densest,  most  impenetrable  places, 

—  leading  you  over  logs  and  through  brush,   alert 
and  expectant,  till,  suddenly,  she  bursts  up  a  few 
yards  from  you,    and  goes  humming  through   the 
trees,  —  the    complete    triumph    of    endurance   and 
vigor.      Hardy  native  bird,  may  your  tracks  never 
be  fewer,  or  your  visits  to  the  birch-tree  less  fre 
quent  ! 

The  squirrel  tracks  —  sharp,   nervous,   and  wiry 

—  have   their  histories   also.      But  who    ever    saw 
squirrels  in  winter?     The  naturalists  say  they  are 
mostly  torpid;  yet  evidently  that  little  pocket- faced 
depredator,  the  chipmunk,  was  not  carrying  buck 
wheat  for  so  many  days  to  his  hole  for  nothing: 
was  he  anticipating  a  state  of  torpidity,  or  providing 
against  the  demands  of  a  very  active  appetite  1    Red 
and  gray  squirrels  are  more  or  less  active  all  winter, 
though  very  shy,  and,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  par 
tially  nocturnal  in  their  habits.      Here  a  gray  one 
has  just  passed,  —  came  down  that  tree  and  went 
up  this;  there  he  dug  for  a  beechnut,  and  left  the 
burr  on  the  snow.     How  did  he  know  where  to  dig  ? 
During  an  unusually  severe  winter  I  have  known 
him  to  make  long  journeys  to  a  barn,  in  a  remote 
field,  where  wheat  was  stored.      How  did  he  know 
there  was  wheat  there?     In  attempting  to  return, 
the  adventurous  creature  was  frequently  run  down 
and  caught  in  the  deep  snow. 

His  home  is  in  the  trunk  of  some  old  birch  or 


56  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

maple,  with  an  entrance  far  up  amid  the  branches. 
In  the  spring  he  builds  himself  a  summer-house  of 
small  leafy  twigs  in  the  top  of  a  neighboring  beech, 
where  the  young  are  reared  and  much  of  the  time 
passed.  But  the  safer  retreat  in  the  maple  is  not 
abandoned,  and  both  old  and  young  resort  thither 
in  the  fall,  or  when  danger  threatens.  Whether 
this  temporary  residence  amid  the  branches  is  for 
elegance  or  pleasure,  or  for  sanitary  reasons  or  do 
mestic  convenience,  the  naturalist  has  forgotten  to 
mention. 

The  elegant  creature,  so  cleanly  in  its  habits,  so 
graceful  in  its  carriage,  so  nimble  and  daring  in  its 
movements,  excites  feelings  of  admiration  akin  to 
those  awakened  by  the  birds  and  the  fairer  forms  of 
nature.  His  passage  through  the  trees  is  almost  a 
flight.  Indeed,  the  flying  squirrel  has  little  or  no 
advantage  over  him,  and  in  speed  and  nimbleness 
cannot  compare  with  him  at  all.  If  he  miss  his 
footing  and  fall,  he  is  sure  to  catch  on  the  next 
branch;  if  the  connection  be  broken,  he  leaps  reck 
lessly  for  the  nearest  spray  or  limb,  and  secures  his 
hold,  even  if  it  be  by  the  aid  of  his  teeth. 

His  career  of  I  frolic  and  festivity  begins  in  the 
fall,  after  the  birds  have  left  us  and  the  holiday 
spirit  of  nature  has  commenced  to  subside.  How 
absorbing  the  pastime  of  the  sportsman  who  goes 
to  the  woods  in  the  still  October  morning  in  quest 
of  him !  You  step  lightly  across  the  threshold  of 
the  forest,  and  sit  down  upon  the  first  log  or  rock 
to  await  the  signals.  It  is  so  still  that  the  ear  sud- 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  57 

denly  seems  to  have  acquired  new  powers,  and  there 
is  no  movement  to  confuse  the  eye.  Presently  you 
hear  the  rustling  of  a  branch,  and  see  it  sway  or 
spring  as  the  squirrel  leaps  from  or  to  it;  or  else 
you  hear  a  disturbance  in  the  dry  leaves,  and  mark 
one  running  upon  the  ground.  He  has  probably 
seen  the  intruder,  and,  not  liking  his  stealthy  move 
ments,  desires  to  avoid  a  nearer  acquaintance.  Now 
he  mounts  a  stump  to  see  if  the  way  is  clear,  then 
pauses  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  t'o  take  his 
bearings,  his  tail,  as  he  skims  along,  uttdulating  be 
hind  him,  and  adding  to  the  easy  grace  and  dignity 
of  his  movements.  Or  else  you  are  first  advised  of 
his  proximity  by  the  dropping  of  a  false  nut,  or  the 
fragments  of  the  shucks  rattling  upon  the  leaves. 
Or,  again,  after  contemplating  you  a  while  unob 
served,  and  making  up  his  mind  that  you  are  not 
dangerous,  he  strikes  an  attitude  on  a  branch,  and 
commences  to  quack  and  bark,  with  an  accompany 
ing  movement  of  his  tail.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  same  stillness  reigns,  the  same  scenes  are 
repeated.  There  is  a  black  variety,  quite  rare,  but 
mating  freely  with  the  gray,  from  which  he  seems 
to  be  distinguished  only  in  color. 

The  track  of  the  red  squirrel  may  be  known  by 
its  smaller  size.  He  is  more  common  and  less  dig 
nified  than  the  gray,  and  oftener  guilty  of  petty  lar 
ceny  about  the  barns  and  grain-fields.  He  is  most 
abundant  in  old  barkpeelings,  and  low,  dilapidated 
hemlocks,  from  which  he  makes  excursions  to  the 
fields  and  orchards,  spinning  along  the  tops  of  the 


58  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

fences,  which  afford  not  only  convenient  lines  of 
communication,  but  a  safe  retreat  if  danger  threat 
ens.  He  loves  to  linger  ahout  the  orchard;  and, 
sitting  upright  on  the  topmost  stone  in  the  wall,  or 
on  the  tallest  stake  in  the  fence,  chipping  up  an 
apple  for  the  seeds,  his  tail  conforming  to  the  curve 
of  his  back,  his  paws  shifting  and  turning  the  apple, 
he  is  a  pretty  sight,  and  his  bright,  pert  appearance 
atones  for  all  the  mischief  he  does.  At  home,  in 
the  woods,  he  is  the  most  frolicsome  and  loquacious. 
The  appearance  of  anything  unusual,  if,  after  con 
templating  it  a  moment,  he  concludes  it  not  dan 
gerous,  excites  his  unbounded  mirth  and  ridicule, 
and  he  snickers  and  chatters,  hardly  able  to  contain 
himself;  now  darting  up  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and 
squealing  in  derision,  then  hopping  into  position 
on  a  limb  and  dancing  to  the  music  of  his  own 
cackle,  and  all  for  your  special  benefit. 

There  is  something  very  human  in  this  apparent 
mirth  and  mockery  of  the  squirrels.  It  seems  to 
be  a  sort  of  ironical  laughter,  and  implies  self-con 
scious  pride  and  exultation  in  the  laugher.  "What 
a  ridiculous  thing  you  are,  to  be  sure ! "  he  seems  to 
say;  "how  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  what  a  poor 
show  for  a  tail !  Look  at  me,  look  at  me !  "  —  and 
he  capers  about  in  his  best  style.  Again,  he  would 
seem  to  tease  you  and  provoke  your  attention;  then 
suddenly  assumes  a  tone  of  good-natured,  childlike 
defiance  and  derision.  That  pretty  little  imp,  the 
chipmunk,  will  sit  on  the  stone  above  his  den  and 
defy  you,  as  plainly  as  if  he  said  so,  to  catch  him 


THE   SNOW-WALKEKS  59 

before  he  can  get  into  his  hole  if  you  can.  You 
hurl  a  stone  at  him,  and  "No  you  didn't!"  comes 
up  from  the  depth  of  his  retreat. 

In  February  another  track  appears  upon  the 
snow,  slender  and  delicate,  about  a  third  larger  than 
that  of  the  gray  squirrel,  indicating  no  haste  or 
speed,  but,  on  the  contrary,  denoting  the  most  im 
perturbable  ease  and  leisure,  the  footprints  so  close 
together  that  the  trail  appears  like  a  chain  of  curi 
ously  carved  links.  Sir  Mephitis  mephitica,  or, 
in  plain  English,  the  skunk,  has  woke  up  from  his 
six  weeks'  nap,  and  come  out  into  society  again. 
He  is  a  nocturnal  traveler,  very  bold  and  impudent, 
coming  quite  up  to  the  barn  and  outbuildings,  and 
sometimes  taking  up  his  quarters  for  the  season  un 
der  the  haymow.  There  is  no  such  word  as  hurry 
in  his  dictionary,  as  you  may  see  by  his  path  upon 
the  snow.  He  has  a  very  sneaking,  insinuating 
way,  and  goes  creeping  about  the  fields  and  woods, 
never  once  in  a  perceptible  degree  altering  his  gait, 
and,  if  a  fence  crosses  his  course,  steers  for  a  break 
or  opening  to  avoid  climbing.  He  is  too  indolent 
even  to  dig  his  own  hole,  but  appropriates  that  of 
a  woodchuck,  or  hunts  out  a  crevice  in  the  rocks, 
from  which  he  extends  his  rambling  in  all  direc 
tions,  preferring  damp,  thawy  weather.  He  has 
very  little  discretion  or  cunning,  and  holds  a  trap 
in  utter  contempt,  stepping  into  it  as  soon  as  beside 
it,  relying  implicitly  for  defense  against  all  forms  of 
danger  upon  the  unsavory  punishment  he  is  capable 
of  inflicting.  He  is  quite  indifferent  to  both  man 


60  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

and  beast,  and  will  not  hurry  himself  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  either.  Walking  through  the  summer 
fields  at  twilight,  I  have  come  near  stepping  upon 
him,  and  was  much  the  more  disturbed  of  the  two. 
When  attacked  in  the  open  fields  he  confounds  the 
plans  of  his  enemies  by  the  unheard-of  tactics  of 
exposing  his  rear  rather  than  his  front.  "  Come  if 
you  dare,"  he  says,  and  his  attitude  makes  even 
the  farm-dog  pause.  After  a  few  encounters  of 
this  kind,  and  if  you  entertain  the  usual  hostility 
towards  him,  your  mode  of  attack  will  speedily  re 
solve  itself  into  moving  about  him  in  a  circle,  the 
radius  of  which  will  be  the  exact  distance  at  which 
you  can  hurl  a  stone  with  accuracy  and  effect. 

He  has  a  secret  to  keep  and  knows  it,  and  is 
careful  not  to  betray  himself  until  he  can  do  so  with 
the  most  telling  effect.  I  have  known  him  to  pre 
serve  his  serenity  even  when  caught  in  a  steel  trap, 
and  look  the  very  picture  of  injured  innocence, 
manoeuvring  carefully  and  deliberately  to  extricate 
his  foot  from  the  grasp  of  the  naughty  jaws.  Do 
not  by  any  means  take  pity  on  him,  and  lend  a 
helping  hand ! 

How  pretty  his  face  and  head!  How  fine  and 
delicate  his  teeth,  like  a  weasel's  or  cat's !  When 
about  a  third  grown,  he  looks  so  well  that  one  cov 
ets  him  for  a  pet.  He  is  quite  precocious,  however, 
and  capable,  even  at  this  tender  age,  of  making  a 
very  strong  appeal  to  your  sense  of  smell. 

No  animal  is  more  cleanly  in  its  habits  than  he. 
He  is  not  an  awkward  boy  who  cuts  his  own  face 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  61 

with  his  whip;  and  neither  his  flesh  nor  his  fur 
hints  the  weapon  with  which  he  is  armed.  The 
most  silent  creature  known  to  me,  he  makes  no 
sound,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  save  a  diffuse, 
impatient  noise,  like  that  produced  by  beating  your 
hand  with  a  whisk-broom,  when  the  farm-dog  has 
discovered  his  retreat  in  the  stone  fence.  He 
renders  himself  obnoxious  to  the  farmer  by  his  par 
tiality  for  hens'  eggs  and  young  poultry.  He  is  a 
confirmed  epicure,  and  at  plundering  hen-roosts  an 
expert.  Not  the  full-grown  fowls  are  his  victims, 
but  the  youngest  and  most  tender.  At  night  Mother 
Hen  receives  under  her  maternal  wings  a  dozen 
newly  hatched  chickens,  and  with  much  pride  and 
satisfaction  feels  them  all  safely  tucked  away  in  her 
feathers.  In  the  morning  she  is  walking  about  dis 
consolately,  attended  by  only  two  or  three  of  all 
that  pretty  brood.  What  has  happened?  Where 
are  they  gone?  That  pickpocket,  Sir  Mephitis, 
could  solve  the  mystery.  Quietly  has  he  approached, 
under  cover  of  darkness,  and  one  by  one  relieved 
her  of  her  precious  charge.  Look  closely  and  you 
will  see  their  little  yellow  legs  and  beaks,  or  part 
of  a  mangled  form,  lying  about  on  the  ground.  Or, 
before  the  hen  has  hatched,  he  may  find  her  out, 
and,  by  the  same  sleight  of  hand,  remove  every  egg, 
leaving  only  the  empty  blood-stained  shells  to  wit 
ness  against  him.  The  birds,  especially  the  ground- 
builders,  suffer  in  like  manner  from  his  plundering 
propensities. 

The  secretion  upon  which  he  relies  for  defense, 


62  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

and  which  is  the  chief  source  of  his  unpopularity, 
while  it  affords  good  reasons  against  cultivating  him 
as  a  pet,  and  mars  his  attractiveness  as  game,  is  by 
no  means  the  greatest  indignity  that  can  be  offered 
to  a  nose.  It  is  a  rank,  living  smell,  and  has  none 
of  the  sickening  qualities  of  disease  or  putrefaction. 
Indeed,  I  think  a  good  smeller  will  enjoy  its  most 
refined  intensity.  It  approaches  the  sublime,  and 
makes  the  nose  tingle.  It  is  tonic  and  bracing,  and, 
I  can  readily  believe,  has  rare  medicinal  qualities. 
I  do  not  recommend  its  use  as  eyewater,  though  an 
old  farmer  assures  me  it  has  undoubted  virtues  when 
thus  applied.  Hearing,  one  night,  a  disturbance 
among  his  hens,  he  rushed  suddenly  out  to  catch 
the  thief,  when  Sir  Mephitis,  taken  by  surprise,  and 
no  doubt  much  annoyed  at  being  interrupted,  dis 
charged  the  vials  of  his  wrath  full  in  the  farmer's 
face,  and  with  such  admirable  effect  that,  for  a  few 
moments,  he  was  completely  blinded,  and  powerless 
to  revenge  himself  upon  the  rogue,  who  embraced 
the  opportunity  to  make  good  his  escape;  but  he 
declared  that  afterwards  his  eyes  felt  as  if  purged 
by  fire,  and  his  sight  was  much  clearer. 

In  March  that  brief  summary  of  a  bear,  the  rac 
coon,  comes  out  of  his  den  in  the  ledges,  and  leaves 
his  sharp  digitigrade  track  upon  the  snow,  —  travel 
ing  not  unfrequently  in  pairs,  —  a  lean,  hungry 
couple,  bent  on  pillage  and  plunder.  They  have 
an  unenviable  time  of  it,  —  feasting  in  the  summer 
and  fall,  hibernating  in  winter,  and  starving  in 
spring.  In  April  I  have  found  the  young  of  the 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  63 

previous  year  creeping  about  the  fields,  so  reduced 
by  starvation  as  to  be  quite  helpless,  and  offering 
no  resistance  to  my  taking  them  up  by  the  tail  and 
carrying  them  home. 

The  old  ones  also  become  very  much  emaciated, 
and  come  boldly  up  to  the  barn  or  other  outbuild 
ings  in  quest  of  food.  I  remember,  one  morning  in 
early  spring,  of  hearing  old  Cuff,  the  farm-dog,  bark 
ing  vociferously  before  it  was  yet  light.  When  we 
got  up  we  discovered  him,  at  the  foot  of  an  ash-tree 
standing  about  thirty  rods  from  the  house,  looking 
up  at  some  gray  object  in  the  leafless  branches,  and 
by  his  manners  and  his  voice  evincing  great  impa 
tience  that  we  were  so  tardy  in  coming  to  his  assist 
ance.  Arrived  on  the  spot,  we  saw  in  the  tree  a 
coon  of  unusual  size.  One  bold  climber  proposed 
to  go  up  and  shake  him  down.  This  was  what  old 
Cuff  wanted,  and  he  fairly  bounded  with  delight  as 
he  saw  his  young  master  shinning  up  the  tree. 
Approaching  within  eight  or  ten  feet  of  the  coon, 
he  seized  the  branch  to  which  it  clung  and  shook 
long  and  fiercely.  But  the  coon  was  in  no  danger 
of  losing  its  hold,  and,  when  the  climber  paused  to 
renew  his  hold,  it  turned  toward  him  with  a  growl, 
and  showed  very  clearly  a  purpose  to  advance  to  the 
attack.  This  caused  his  pursuer  to  descend  to  the 
ground  again  with  all  speed.  When  the  coon  was 
finally  brought  down  with  a  gun,  he  fought  the  dog, 
which  was  a  large,  powerful  animal,  with  great  fury, 
returning  bite  for  bite  for  some  moments;  and  after 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  and  his  unequal 


64  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

antagonist  had  shaken  him  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat, 
making  his  teeth  meet  through  the  small  of  his 
back,  the  coon  still  showed  fight. 

They  are  very  tenacious  of  life,  and  like  the 
badger  will  always  whip  a  dog  of  their  own  size  and 
weight.  A  woodchuck  can  bite  severely,  having 
teeth  that  cut  like  chisels,  but  a  coon  has  agility 
and  power  of  limb  as  well. 

They  are  only  considered  game  in  the  fall,  or 
towards  the  close  of  summer,  when  they  become  fat 
and  their  flesh  sweet.  At  this  time,  cooning  in  the 
remote  interior  is  a  famous  pastime.  As  this  animal 
is  entirely  nocturnal  in  its  habits,  it  is  hunted  only 
at  night.  A  piece  of  corn  on  some  remote  side-hill 
near  the  mountain,  or  between  two  pieces  of  woods, 
is  most  apt  to  be  frequented  by  them.  While  the 
corn  is  yet  green  they  pull  the  ears  down  like  hogs, 
and,  tearing  open  the  sheathing  of  husks,  eat  the 
tender,  succulent  kernels,  bruising  and  destroying 
much  more  than  they  devour.  Sometimes  their 
ravages  are  a  matter  of  serious  concern  to  the  farmer. 
But  every  such  neighborhood  has  its  coon-dog,  and 
the  boys  and  young  men  dearly  love  the  sport. 
The  party  sets  out  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock  of  a 
dark,  moonless  night,  and  stealthily  approach  the 
cornfield.  The  dog  knows  his  business,  and  when 
he  is  put  into  a  patch  of  corn  and  told  to  "hunt  them 
up "  he  makes  a  thorough  search,  and  will  not  be 
misled  by  any  other  scent.  You  hear  him  rattling 
through  the  corn,  hither  and  yon,  with  great  speed. 
The  coons  prick  up  their  ears,  and  leave  on  the 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS  65 

opposite  side  of  the  field.  In  the  stillness  you  may 
sometimes  hear  a  single  stone  rattle  on  the  wall  as 
they  hurry  toward  the  woods.  If  the  dog  finds 
nothing  he  comes  back  to  his  master  in  a  short  time, 
and  says  in  his  dumb  way,  "No  coon  there."  But 
if  he  strikes  a  trail  you  presently  hear  a  louder  rat 
tling  on  the  stone  wall,  and  then  a  hurried  bark  as 
he  enters  the  woods,  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by 
loud  and  repeated  barking  as  he  reaches  the  foot  of 
the  tree  in  which  the  coon  has  taken  refuge.  Then 
follows  a  pellmell  rush  of  the  cooning  party  up  the 
hill,  into  the  woods,  through  the  brush  and  the 
darkness,  falling  over  prostrate  trees,  pitching  into 
gullies  and  hollows,  losing  hats  and  tearing  clothes, 
till  finally,  guided  by  the  baying  of  the  faithful  dog, 
the  tree  is  reached.  The  first  thing  now  in  order 
is  to  kindle  a  fire,  and,  if  its  light  reveals  the  coon, 
to  shoot  him;  if  not,  to  fell  the  tree  with  an  axe. 
If  this  happens  to  be  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  timber 
and  of  strength,  to  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
till  morning. 

But  with  March  our  interest  in  these  phases  of 
animal  life,  which  winter  has  so  emphasized  and 
brought  out,  begins  to  decline.  Vague  rumors  are 
afloat  in  the  air  of  a  great  and  coming  change.  We 
are  eager  for  Winter  to  be  gone,  since  he,  too,  is 
fugitive  and  cannot  keep  his  place.  Invisible  hands 
deface  his  icy  statuary;  his  chisel  has  lost  its  cun 
ning.  The  drifts,  so  pure  and  exquisite,  are  now 
earth-stained  and  weather-worn,  — the  flutes  and 
scallops,  and  fine,  firm  lines,  all  gone;  and  what 


66  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

was  a  grace  and  an  ornament  to  the  hills  is  now  a 
disfiguration.  Like  worn  and  unwashed  linen  ap 
pear  the  remains  of  that  spotless  robe  with  which 
he  clothed  the  world  as  his  bride. 

But  he  will  not  abdicate  without  a  struggle.  Day 
after  day  he  rallies  his  scattered  forces,  and  night 
after  night  pitches  his  white  tents  on  the  hills,  and 
would  fain  regain  his  lost  ground;  but  the  young 
prince  in  every  encounter  prevails.  Slowly  and 
reluctantly  the  gray  old  hero  retreats  up  the  moun 
tain,  till  finally  the  south  rain  comes  in  earnest,  and 
in  a  night  he  is  dead. 


IV 

THE  FOX 

T  HAVE  already  spoken  of  the  fox  at  some 
^~  length,  but  it  will  take  a  chapter  by  itself  to  do 
half  justice  to  his  portrait. 

He  furnishes,  perhaps,  the  only  instance  that  can 
be  cited  of  a  fur-bearing  animal  that  not  only  holds 
its  own,  but  that  actually  increases  in  the  face  of 
the  means  that  are  used  for  its  extermination.  The 
beaver,  for  instance,  was  gone  before  the  earliest 
settlers  could  get  a  sight  of  him;  and  even  the  mink 
and  marten  are  now  only  rarely  seen,  or  not  seen  at 
all,  in  places  where  they  were  once  abundant. 

But  the  fox  has  survived  civilization,  and  in 
some  localities  is  no  doubt  more  abundant  now  than 
in  the  time  of  the  Revolution.  For  half  a  century 
at  least  he  has  been  almost  the  only  prize,  in  the 
way  of  fur,  that  was  to  be  found  on  our  mountains, 
and  he  has  been  hunted  and  trapped  and  waylaid, 
sought  for  as  game  and  pursued  in  enmity,  taken  by 
fair  means  and  by  foul,  and  yet  there  seems  not  the 
slightest  danger  of  the  species  becoming  extinct. 

One  would  think  that  a  single  hound  in  a  neigh 
borhood,  filling  the  mountains  with  his  bayings,  and 
leaving  no  nook  or  byway  of  them  unexplored,  was 


68  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

enough  to  drive  and  scare  every  fox  from  the  coun 
try.  But  not  so.  Indeed,  I  am  almost  tempted  to 
say,  the  more  hounds,  the  more  foxes. 

I  recently  spent  a  summer  month  in  a  moiintain- 
ous  district  in  the  State  of  New  York,  where,  from 
its  earliest  settlement,  the  red  fox  has  been  the 
standing  prize  for  skill  in  the  use  of  the  trap  and 
gun.  At  the  house  where  I  was  stopping  were  two 
foxhounds,  and  a  neighbor  half  a  mile  distant  had 
a  third.  There  were  many  others  in  the  township, 
and  in  season  they  were  well  employed,  too;  but 
the  three  spoken  of,  attended  by  their  owners,  held 
high  carnival  on  the  mountains  in  the  immediate 
vicinity.  And  many  were  the  foxes  that,  winter 
after  winter,  fell  before  them,  twenty-five  having 
been  shot,  the  season  before  my  visit,  on  one  small 
range  alone.  And  yet  the  foxes  were  apparently 
never  more  abundant  than  they  were  that  summer, 
and  never  bolder,  coming  at  night  within  a  few  rods 
of  the  house,  and  of  the  unchained  alert  hounds, 
and  making  havoc  among  the  poultry. 

One  morning  a  large,  fat  goose  was  found  minus 
her  head  and  otherwise  mangled.  Both  hounds  had 
disappeared,  and,  as  they  did  not  come  back  till  near 
night,  it  was  inferred  that  they  had  cut  short  Rey 
nard's  repast,  and  given  him  a  good  chase  into  the 
bargain.  But  next  night  he  was  back  again,  and 
this  time  got  safely  off  with  the  goose.  A  couple 
of  nights  after  he  must  have  come  with  recruits,  for 
next  morning  three  large  goslings  were  reported 
missing.  The  silly  geese  now  got  it  through  their 


THE  FOX  69 

noddles  that  there  was  danger  about,  and  every 
night  thereafter  came  close  up  to  the  house  to 
roost. 

A  brood  of  turkeys,  the  old  one  tied  to  a  tree  a 
few  rods  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  were  the  next 
objects  of  attack.  The  predaceous  rascal  came,  as 
usual,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  night.  I  happened 
to  be  awake,  and  heard  the  helpless  turkey  cry 
"Quit,"  "quit,"  with  great  emphasis.  Another 
sleeper,  on  the  floor  above  me,  who,  it  see|ps,  had 
been  sleeping  with  one  ear  awake  for  several  nights 
in  apprehension  for  the  safety  of  his  turkeys,  heard 
the  sound  also,  and  instantly  divined  its  cause.  I 
heard  the  window  open  and  a  voice  summon  the 
dogs.  A  loud  bellow  was  the  response,  which 
caused  Keynard  to  take  himself  off  in  a  hurry.  A 
moment  more,  and  the  mother  turkey  would  have 
shared  the  fate  of  the  geese.  There  she  lay  at  the 
end  of  her  tether,  with  extended  wings,  bitten  and 
rumpled.  The  young  ones  roosted  in  a  row  on  the 
fence  near  by,  and  had  taken  flight  on  the  first 
alarm. 

Turkeys,  retaining  many  of  their  wild  instincts, 
are  less  easily  captured  by  the  fox  than  any  other 
of  our  domestic  fowls.  On  the  slightest  show  of 
danger  they  take  to  whig,  and  it  is  not  unusual,  in 
the  locality  of  which  I  speak,  to  find  them  in  the 
morning  perched  in  the  most  unwonted  places,  as  on 
the  peak  of  the  barn  or  hay-shed,  or  on  the  tops  of 
the  apple-trees,  their  tails  spread  and  their  manners 
showing  much  excitement.  Perchance  one  turkey 


70  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

is  minus  her  tail,  the  fox  having  succeeded  in  get 
ting  only  a  mouthful  of  quills. 

As  the  brood  grows  and  their  wings  develop,  they 
wander  far  from  the  house  in  quest  of  grasshoppers. 
At  such  times  they  are  all  watchfulness  and  suspi 
cion.  Crossing  the  fields  one  day,  attended  by  a 
dog  that  much  resembled  a  fox,  I  came  suddenly 
upon  a  brood  about  one  third  grown,  which  were 
feeding  in  a  pasture  just  beyond  a  wood.  It  so 
happened  that  they  caught  sight  of  the  dog  without 
seeing  me,  when  instantly,  with  the  celerity  of  wild 
game,  they  launched  into  the  air,  and,  while  the 
old  one  perched  upon  a  treetop,  as  if  to  keep  an 
eye  on  the  supposed  enemy,  the  young  went  sailing 
over  the  trees  toward  home. 

The  two  hounds  above  referred  to,  accompanied 
by  a  cur- dog,  whose  business  it  was  to  mind  the 
farm,  but  who  took  as  much  delight  in  running  away 
from  prosy  duty  as  if  he  had  been  a  schoolboy, 
would  frequently  steal  off  and  have  a  good  hunt  all 
by  themselves,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  I  sup 
pose.  I  more  than  half  suspect  that  it  was  as  a 
kind  of  taunt  or  retaliation,  that  Reynard  came  and 
took  the  geese  from  under  their  very  noses.  One 
morning  they  went  off  and  stayed  till  the  afternoon 
of  the  next  day;  they  ran  the  fox  all  day  and  all 
night,  the  hounds  baying  at  every  jump,  the  cur- 
dog  silent  and  tenacious.  When  the  trio  returned 
they  came  dragging  themselves  along,  stiff,  foot 
sore,  gaunt,  and  hungry.  For  a  day  or  two  after 
ward  they  lay  about  the  kennels,  seeming  to  dread 


THE  FOX  71 

nothing  so  much  as  the  having  to  move.  The 
stolen  hunt  was  their  "spree,"  their  "bender,"  and 
of  course  they  must  take  time  to  get  over  it. 

Some  old  hunters  think  the  fox  enjoys  the  chase 
as  much  as  the  hound,  especially  when  the  latter 
runs  slow,  as  the  best  hounds  do.  The  fox  will 
wait  for  the  hound,  will  sit  down  and  listen,  or  play 
about,  crossing  and  recrossing  and  doubling  upon 
his  track,  as  if  enjoying  a  mischievous  consciousness 
of  the  perplexity  he  would  presently  cause  his  pur 
suer.  It  is  evident,  however,  that  the  fox  does  not 
always  have  his  share  of  the  fun:  before  a  swift 
dog,  or  in  a  deep  snow,  or  on  a  wet  day  when  his 
tail  gets  heavy,  he  must  put  his  best  foot  forward. 
As  a  last  resort  he  "holes  up."  Sometimes  he 
resorts  to  numerous  devices  to  mislead  and  escape 
the  dog  altogether.  He  will  walk  in  the  bed  of  a 
small  creek,  or  on  a  rail-fence.  I  heard  of  an  in 
stance  of  a  fox,  hard  and  long  pressed,  that  took  to 
a  rail-fence,  and,  after  walking  some  distance,  made 
a  leap  to  one  side  to  a  hollow  stump,  in  the  cavity 
of  which  he  snugly  stowed  himself.  The  ruse  suc 
ceeded,  and  the  dogs  lost  the  trail;  but  the  hunter, 
coming  up,  passed  by  chance  near  the  stump,  when 
out  bounded  the  fox,  his  cunning  availing  him  less 
than  he  deserved.  On  another  occasion  the  fox 
took  to  the  public  road,  and  stepped  with  great  care 
and  precision  into  a  sleigh-track.  The  hard,  pol 
ished  snow  took  no  imprint  of  the  light  foot,  and 
the  scent  was  no  doubt  less  than  it  would  have  been 
on  a  rougher  surface.  Maybe,  also,  the  rogue  had 


72  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

considered  the  chances  of  another  sleigh  coming 
along,  before  the  hound,  and  obliterating  the  trail 
entirely. 

Audubon  relates  of  a  certain  fox,  which,  when 
started  by  the  hounds,  always  managed  to  elude 
them  at  a  certain  point.  Finally  the  hunter  con 
cealed  himself  in  the  locality,  to  discover,  if  possi 
ble,  the  trick.  Presently  along  came  the  fox,  and, 
making  a  leap  to  one  side,  ran  up  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree  which  had  lodged  some  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  concealed  himself  in  the  top.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  hounds  came  up,  and  in  their  eager 
ness  passed  some  distance  beyond  the  point,  and 
then  went  still  farther,  looking  for  the  lost  trail. 
Then  the  fox  hastened  down,  and,  taking  his  back 
track,  fooled  the  dogs  completely. 

I  was  told  of  a  silver-gray  fox  in  northern  New 
York,  which,  when  pursued  by  the  hounds,  would 
run  till  it  had  hunted  up  another  fox,  or  the  fresh 
trail  of  one,  when  it  would  so  manoeuvre  that  the 
hound  would  invariably  be  switched  off  on  the  sec 
ond  track. 

In  cold,  dry  weather  the  fox  will  sometimes 
elude  the  hound,  at  least  delay  him  much,  by  tak 
ing  to  a  bare,  plowed  field.  The  hard  dry  earth 
seems  not  to  retain  a  particle  of  the  scent,  and  the 
hound  gives  a  loud,  long,  peculiar  bark,  to  signify 
he  has  trouble.  It  is  now  his  turn  to  show  his  wit, 
which  he  often  does  by  passing  completely  around 
the  field,  and  resuming  the  trail  again  where  it 
crosses  the  fence  or  a  strip  of  snow. 


THE   FOX  73 

The  fact  that  any  dry,  hard  surface  is  unfavorable 
to  the  hound,  suggests,  in  a  measure,  the  explana 
tion  of  the  wonderful  faculty  that  all  dogs  in  a 
degree  possess  to  track  an  animal  by  the  scent  of 
the  foot  alone.  Did  you  ever  think  why  a  dog's 
nose  is  always  wet  ?  Examine  the  nose  of  a  fox 
hound,  for  instance;  how  very  moist  and  sensitive! 
Cause  this  moisture  to  dry  up,  and  the  dog  would 
be  as  powerless  to  track  an  animal  as  you  are!  The 
nose  of  the  cat,  you  may  observe,  is  but  a  little 
moist,  and,  as  you  know,  her  sense  of  smell  is  far 
inferior  to  that  of  the  dog.  Moisten  your  own  nos 
trils  and  lips,  and  this  sense  is  plainly  sharpened. 
The  sweat  of  a  dog's  nose,  therefore,  is  no  doubt  a 
vital  element  in  its  power,  and,  without  taking  a 
very  long  logical  stride,  we  may  infer  how  a  damp, 
rough  surface  aids  him  in  tracking  game. 

A  fox  hunt  in  this  country  is,  of  course,  quite  a 
different  thing  from  what  it  is  in  England,  where 
all  the  squires  and  noblemen  of  a  borough,  superbly 
mounted,  go  riding  over  the  country,  guided  by  the 
yelling  hounds,  till  the  fox  is  literally  run  down 
and  murdered.  Here  the  hunter  prefers  a  rough, 
mountainous  country,  and,  as  probably  most  persons 
know,  takes  advantage  of  the  disposition  of  the  fox, 
when  pursued  by  the  hound,  to  play  or  circle  around 
a  ridge  or  bold  point,  and,  taking  his  stand  near  the 
run-way  shoots  him  down. 

I  recently  had  the  pleasure  of  a  turn  with  some 
experienced  hunters.  As  we  ascended  the  ridge 
toward  the  mountain,  keeping  in  our  ears  the  uncer- 


74  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

tain  baying  of  the  hounds  as  they  slowly  unraveled 
an  old  trail,  my  companions  pointed  out  to  me  the 
different  run- ways,  —  a  gap  in  the  fence  here,  a  rock 
just  below  the  brow  of  the  hill  there,  that  tree  yon 
der  near  the  corner  of  the  woods,  or  the  end  of  that 
stone  wall  looking  down  the  side-hill,  or  command 
ing  a  cow  path,  or  the  outlet  of  a  wood-road.  A 
half  wild  apple  orchard  near  a  cross  road  was  pointed 
out  as  an  invariable  run-way,  where  the  fox  turned 
toward  the  mountain  again,  after  having  been  driven 
down  the  ridge.  There  appeared  to  be  no  reason 
why  the  foxes  should  habitually  pass  any  particular 
point,  yet  the  hunters  told  me  that  year  after  year 
they  took  about  the  same  turns,  each  generation  of 
foxes  running  through  the  upper  corner  of  that 
field,  or  crossing  the  valley  near  yonder  stone  wall, 
when  pursued  by  the  dog.  It  seems  the  fox  when 
he  finds  himself  followed  is  perpetually  tempted  to 
turn  in  his  course,  to  deflect  from  a  right  line,  as 
a  person  would  undoubtedly  be  under  similar  cir 
cumstances.  If  he  is  on  this  side  of  the  ridge, 
when  he  hears  the  dog  break  around  on  his  trail  he 
speedily  crosses  to  the  other  side;  if  he  is  in  the 
fields  he  takes  again  to  the  woods;  if  in  the  valley 
he  hastens  to  the  high  land,  and  evidently  enjoys 
running  along  the  ridge  and  listening  to  the  dogs, 
slowly  tracing  out  his  course  in  the  fields  below. 
At  such  times  he  appears  to  have  but  one  sense, 
hearing,  and  that  reverted  toward  his  pursuers.  He 
is  constantly  pausing,  looking  back  and  listening, 
and  will  almost  run  over  the  hunter  if  he  stands 
still,  even  though  not  at  all  concealed. 


THE   FOX  VO 

Animals  of  this  class  depend  far  less  upon  their 
sight  than  upon  their  hearing  and  sense  of  smell. 
Neither  the  fox  nor  the  dog  is  capable  of  much  dis 
crimination  with  the  eye;  they  seem  to  see  things 
only  in  the  mass;  but  with  the  nose  they  can  ana 
lyze  and  define,  and  get  at  the  most  subtle  shades 
of  difference.  The  fox  will  not  read  a  man  from  a 
stump  or  a  rock,  unless  he  gets  his  scent,  and  the 
dog  does  not  know  his  master  in  a  crowd  until  he 
has  smelled  him. 

On  the  occasion  to  which  I  refer,  it  was  not  many 
minutes  after  the  dogs  entered  the  woods  on  the 
side  of  the  mountain  before  they  gave  out  sharp 
and  eager,  and  we  knew  at  once  that  the  fox  was 
started.  We  were  then  near  a  point  that  had  been 
designated  as  a  sure  run- way,  and  hastened  to  get 
into  position  with  all  speed.  For  my  part  I  was  so 
taken  with  the  music  of  the  hounds,  as  it  swelled  up 
over  the  ridge,  that  I  quite  forgot  the  game.  I  saw 
one  of  my  companions  leveling  his  gun,  and,  looking 
a  few  rods  to  the  right,  saw  the  fox  coming  right 
on  to  us.  I  had  barely  time  to  note  the  silly  and 
abashed  expression  that  came  over  him  as  he  saw  us 
in  his  path,  when  he  was  cut  down  as  by  a  flash  of 
lightning.  The  rogue  did  not  appear  frightened, 
but  ashamed  and  out  of  countenance,  as  one  does 
when  some  trick  has  been  played  upon  him,  or  when 
detected  in  some  mischief. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  we  were  passing  through 
a  piece  of  woods  in  the  valley  below,  another  fox, 
the  third  that  day,  broke  from  his  cover  in  an  old 


76  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

treetop,  under  our  very  noses,  and  drew  the  fire  of 
three  of  our  party,  myself  among  the  number,  but, 
thanks  to  the  interposing  trees  and  limbs,  escaped 
unhurt.  Then  the  dogs  took  up  the  trail  and  there 
was  lively  music  again.  The  fox  steered  through 
the  fields  direct  for  the  ridge  where  we  had  passed 
up  in  the  morning.  We  knew  he  would  take  a  turn 
here  and  then  point  for  the  mountain,  and  two  of 
us,  with  the  hope  of  cutting  him  off  by  the  old 
orchard,  through  which  we  were  again  assured  he 
would  surely  pass,  made  a  precipitous  rush  for  that 
point.  It  was  nearly  half  a  mile  distant,  most  of 
the  way  up  a  steep  side-hill,  and  if  the  fox  took  the 
circuit  indicated  he  would  probably  be  there  in 
twelve  or  fifteen  minutes.  Running  up  an  angle  of 
45°  seems  quite  easy  work  for  a  four-footed  beast 
like  a  dog  or  fox,  but  to  a  two-legged  animal  like  a 
man  it  is  very  heavy  and  awkward.  Before  I  got 
half  way  up  there  seemed  to  be  a  vacuum  all  about 
me,  so  labored  was  my  breathing,  and  when  I 
reached  the  summit  my  head  swam  and  my  knees 
were  about  giving  out ;  but  pressing  on,  I  had  barely 
time  to  reach  a  point  in  the  road  abreast  of  the 
orchard,  when  I  heard  the  hounds,  and,  looking 
under  the  trees,  saw  the  fox,  leaping  high  above  the 
weeds  and  grass,  coming  straight  toward  me.  He 
evidently  had  not  got  over  the  first  scare,  which  our 
haphazard  fusillade  had  given  him,  and  was  making 
unusually  quick  time.  I  was  armed  with  a  rifle, 
and  said  to  myself  now  was  the  time  to  win  the 
laurels  I  had  coveted.  For  half  a  day  previous  I 


THE  FOX  77 

had  been  practicing  on  a  pumpkin  which  a  patient 
youth  had  rolled  down  a  hill  for  me,  and  had  im 
proved  my  shot  considerably.  Now  a  yellow  pump 
kin  was  coming  which  was  not  a  pumpkin,  and  for 
the  first  time  during  the  day  opportunity  favored 
me.  I  expected  the  fox  to  cross  the  road  a  few 
yards  below  me,  but  just  then  I  heard  him  whisk 
through  the  grass,  and  he  bounded  upon  the  fence 
a  few  yards  above.  He  seemed  to  cringe  as  he  saw 
his  old  enemy,  and  to  depress  his  fur  to  half  his 
former  dimensions.  Three  bounds  and  he  had 
cleared  the  road,  when  my  bullet  tore  up  the  sod 
beside  him,  but  to  this  hour  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  looked  at  the  fox  without  seeing  my  gun,  or 
whether  I  did  sight  him  across  its  barrel.  I  only 
know  that  I  did  not  distinguish  myself  in  the  use 
of  the  rifle  on  that  occasion,  and  went  home  to 
wreak  my  revenge  upon  another  pumpkin;  but 
without  much  improvement  of  my  skill,  for,  a  few 
days  after,  another  fox  ran  under  my  very  nose  with 
perfect  impunity.  There  is  something  so  fascinat 
ing  in  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  fox  that  the 
eye  is  quite  mastered,  and,  unless  the  instinct  of  the 
sportsman  is  very  strong  and  quick,  the  prey  will 
slip  through  his  grasp. 

A  still  hunt  rarely  brings  you  in  sight  of  a  fox, 
as  his  ears  are  much  sharper  than  yours,  and  his 
tread  much  lighter.  But  if  the  fox  is  mousing  in 
the  fields,  and  you  discover  him  before  he  does 
you,  you  may,  the  wind  favoring,  call  him  within 
a  few  paces  of  you.  Secrete  yourself  behind  the 


78  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

fence,  or  some  other  object,  and  squeak  as  nearly 
like  a  mouse  as  possible.  Reynard  will  hear  the 
sound  at  an  incredible  distance.  Pricking  up  his 
ears,  he  gets  the  direction,  and  comes  trotting 
along  as  unsuspiciously  as  can  be.  I  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  to  try  the  experiment,  but  I 
know  perfectly  reliable  persons  who  have.  One 
man,  in  the  pasture  getting  his  cows,  called  a  fox 
which  was  too  busy  mousing  to  get  the  first  sight, 
till  it  jumped  upon  the  wall  just  over  where  he 
sat  secreted.  Giving  a  loud  whoop  and  jumping 
up  at  the  same  time,  the  fox  came  as  near  being 
frightened  out  of  his  skin  as  I  suspect  a  fox  ever 
was. 

In  trapping  for  the  fox,  you  get  perhaps  about  as 
much  "fun"  and  as  little  fur  as  in  any  trapping 
amusement  you  can  engage  in.  The  one  feeling 
that  ever  seems  present  to  the  mind  of  Reynard  is 
suspicion.  He  does  not  need  experience  to  teach 
him,  but  seems  to  know  from  the  jump  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  trap,  and  that  a  trap  has  a  way  of 
grasping  a  fox's  paw  that  is  more  frank  than  friendly. 
Cornered  in  a  hole  or  den,  a  trap  can  be  set  so  that 
the  poor  creature  has  the  desperate  alternative  of 
being  caught  or  starve.  He  is  generally  caught, 
though  not  till  he  has  braved  hunger  for  a  good 
many  days. 

But  to  know  all  his  cunning  and  shrewdness,  bait 
him  in  the  field,  or  set  your  trap  by  some  carcass 
where  he  is  wont  to  come.  In  some  cases  he  will 
uncover  the  trap,  and  leave  the  marks  of  his  con- 


THE   FOX  79 

tempt  for  it  in  a  way  you  cannot  mistake,  or  else 
he  will  not  approach  within  a  rod  of  it.  Occasion 
ally,  however,  he  finds  in  a  trapper  more  than  his 
match,  and  is  fairly  caught.  When  this  happens, 
the  trap,  which  must  he  of  the  finest  make,  is  never 
touched  with  the  bare  hand,  but,  after  being  thor 
oughly  smoked  and  greased,  is  set  in  a  bed  of  dry 
ashes  or  chaff  in  a  remote  field,  where  the  fox  has 
been  emboldened  to  dig  for  several  successive  nights 
for  morsels  of  toasted  cheese. 

A  light  fall  of  snow  aids  the  trapper's  art  and 
conspires  to  Reynard's  ruin.  But  how  lightly  he 
is  caught,  when  caught  at  all !  barely  the  end  of  his 
toes,  or  at  most  a  spike  through  the  middle  of  his 
foot.  I  once  saw  a  large  painting  of  a  fox  strug 
gling  with  a  trap  which  held  him  by  the  hind  leg, 
above  the  gambrel-joint !  A  painting  alongside  of 
it  represented  a  peasant  driving  an  ox-team  from 
the  off-side !  A  fox  would  be  as  likely  to  be  caught 
above  the  gambrel-joint  as  a  farmer  would  to  drive 
his  team  from  the  off-side.  I  knew  one  that  was 
caught  by  the  tip  of  the  lower  jaw.  He  came 
nightly,  and  took  the  morsel  of  cheese  from  the  pan 
of  the  trap  without  springing  it.  A  piece  was  then 
secured  to  the  pan  by  a  thread,  with  the  result  as 
above  stated. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  see  clearly  why  the 
mother  fox  generally  selects  a  burrow  or  hole  in  the 
open  field  in  which  to  have  her  young,  except  it  be, 
as  some  hunters  maintain,  for  better  security.  The 
young  foxes  are  wont  to  come  out  on  a  warm  day, 


80  WINTER    SUNSHINE 

and  play  like  puppies  in  front  of  the  den.  The 
view  being  unobstructed  on  all  sides  by  trees  or 
bushes,  in  the  cover  of  which  danger  might  ap 
proach,  they  are  less  liable  to  surprise  and  capture. 
On  the  slightest  sound  they  disappear  in  the  hole. 
Those  who  have  watched  the  gambols  of  the  young 
foxes  speak  of  them  as  very  amusing,  even  more 
arch  and  playful  than  those  of  kittens,  while  a  spirit 
profoundly  wise  and  cunning  seems  to  look  out  of 
their  young  eyes.  The  parent  fox  can  never  be 
caught  in  the  den  with  them,  but  is  hovering  near 
the  woods,  which  are  always  at  hand,  and  by  her 
warning  cry  or  bark  telling  them  when  to  be  on 
their  guard.  She  usually  has  at  least  three  dens, 
at  no  great  distance  apart,  and  moves  stealthily  in 
the  night  with  her  charge  from  one  to  the  other,  so 
as  to  mislead  her  enemies.  Many  a  party  of  boys, 
and  of  men,  too,  discovering  the  whereabouts  of  a 
litter,  have  gone  with  shovels  and  picks,  and,  after 
digging  away  vigorously  for  several  hours,  have 
found  only  an  empty  hole  for  their  pains.  The  old 
fox,  finding  her  secret  had  been  found  out,  had 
waited  for  darkness,  in  the  cover  of  which  to  trans 
fer  her  household  to  new  quarters;  or  else  some  old 
fox-hunter,  jealous  of  the  preservation  of  his  game, 
and  getting  word  of  the  intended  destruction  of  the 
litter,  had  gone  at  dusk  the  night  before,  and  made 
some  disturbance  about  the  den,  perhaps  flashed 
some  powder  in  its  mouth,  — a  hint  which  the 
shrewd  animal  knew  how  to  interpret. 

The  more  scientific  aspects  of  the  question  may 


THE   FOX  81 

not  be  without  interest  to  some  of  my  readers. 
The  fox  belongs  to  the  great  order  of  flesh-eating 
animals  called  Carnivora,  and  of  the  family  called 
Canidce,  or  dogs.  The  wolf  is  a  kind  of  wild  dog, 
and  the  fox  is  a  kind  of  wolf.  Foxes,  unlike  wolves, 
however,  never  go  in  packs  or  companies,  but  hunt 
singly.  The  fox  has  a  kind  of  bark,  which  suggests 
the  dog,  as  have  all  the  members  of  this  family. 
The  kinship  is  further  shown  by  the  fact  that  dur 
ing  certain  periods,  for  the  most  part  in  the  sum 
mer,  the  dog  cannot  be  made  to  attack  or  even  pur 
sue  the  female  fox,  but  will  run  from  her  in  the 
most  shamefaced  manner,  which  he  will  not  do  in 
the  case  of  any  other  animal  except  a  wolf.  Many 
of  the  ways  and  manners  of  the  fox,  when  tamed, 
are  also  like  the  dog's.  I  once  saw  a  young  red 
fox  exposed  for  sale  in  the  market  in  Washington. 
A  colored  man  had  him,  and  said  he  had  caught  him 
out  in  Virginia.  He  led  him  by  a  small  chain,  as 
he  would  a  puppy,  and  the  innocent  young  rascal 
would  lie  on  his  side  and  bask  and  sleep  in  the  sun 
shine,  amid  all  the  noise  and  chaffering  around  him, 
precisely  like  a  dog.  He  was  about  the  size  of  a 
full-grown  cat,  and  there  was  a  bewitching  beauty 
about  him  that  I  could  hardly  resist.  On  another 
occasion,  I  saw  a  gray  fox,  about  two  thirds  grown, 
playing  with  a  dog,  about  the  same  size,  and  by 
nothing  in  the  manners  of  either  could  you  tell 
which  was  the  dog  and  which  was  the  fox. 

Some  naturalists  think  there  are  but  two  perma 
nent  species  of  the  fox  in  the  United  States,  namely, 


82  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  gray  fox  and  the  red  fox,  though  there  are  five 
or  six  varieties.  The  gray  fox,  which  is  much 
smaller  and  less  valuable  than  the  red,  is  the  South 
ern  species,  and  is  said  to  be  rarely  found  north  of 
Maryland,  though  in  certain  rocky  localities  along 
the  Hudson  they  are  common. 

In  the  Southern  States  this  fox  is  often  hunted 
in  the  English  fashion,  namely,  on  horseback,  the 
riders  tearing  through  the  country  in  pursuit  till  the 
animal  is  run  down  and  caught.  This  is  the  only 
fox  that  will  tree.  When  too  closely  pressed,  in 
stead  of  taking  to  a  den  or  hole,  it  climbs  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  dogs  in  some  small  tree. 

The  red  fox  is  the  Northern  species,  and  is  rarely 
found  farther  south  than  the  mountainous  districts 
of  Virginia.  In  the  Arctic  regions  he  gives  place 
to  the  Arctic  fox,  which  most  of  the  season  is  white. 

The  prairie  fox,  the  cross  fox,  and  the  black  or 
silver-gray  fox,  seem  only  varieties  of  the  red  fox, 
as  the  black  squirrel  breeds  from  the  gray,  and  the 
black  woodchuck  is  found  with  the  brown.  There 
is  little  to  distinguish  them  from  the  red,  except 
the  color,  though  the  prairie  fox  is  said  to  be  the 
larger  of  the  two. 

The  cross  fox  is  dark  brown  on  its  muzzle  and 
extremities,  with  a  cross  of  red  and  black  on  its 
shoulders  and  breast,  which  peculiarity  of  coloring, 
and  not  any  trait  in  its  character,  gives  it  its  name. 
They  are  very  rare,  and  few  hunters  have  ever  seen 
one.  The  American  Fur  Company  used  to  obtain 
annually  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  skins.  The 


THE   FOX  83 

skins  formerly  sold  for  twenty- five  dollars,  though 
I  believe  they  now  bring  only  about  five  dollars. 

The  black  or  silver-gray  fox  is  the  rarest  of  all, 
and  its  skin  the  most  valuable.  The  Indians  used 
to  estimate  it  equal  to  forty  beaver  skins.  The 
great  fur  companies  seldom  collect  in  a  single  season 
more  than  four  or  five  skins  at  any  one  post.  Most 
of  those  of  the  American  Fur  Company  come  from 
the  head-waters  of  the  Mississippi.  One  of  the 
younger  Audubons  shot  one  in  northern  New  York. 
The  fox  had  been  seen  and  fired  at  many  times  by 
the  hunters  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  come  to 
have  the  reputation  of  leading  a  charmed  life,  and 
of  being  invulnerable  to  anything  but  a  silver  bul 
let.  But  Audubon  brought  her  down  (for  it  was 
a  female)  on  the  second  trial.  She  had  a  litter  of 
young  in  the  vicinity,  which  he  also  dug  out,  and 
found  the  nest  to  hold  three  black  and  four  red 
ones,  which  fact  settled  the  question  with  him  that 
black  and  red  often  have  the  same  parentage,  and 
are  in  truth  the  same  species. 

The  color  of  this  fox,  in  a  point-blank  view,  is 
black,  but  viewed  at  an  angle  it  is  a  dark  silver- 
gray,  whence  has  arisen  the  notion  that  the  black 
and  the  silver-gray  are  distinct  varieties.  The  tip 
of  the  tail  is  always  white. 

In  almost  every  neighborhood  there  are  traditions 
of  this  fox,  and  it  is  the  dream  of  young  sportsmen; 
but  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  person  who  has  seen 
one.  I  should  go  well  to  the  north,  into  the  British 
Possessions,  if  I  were  bent  on  obtaining  a  specimen. 


84  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

One  more  item  from  the  books.  From  the  fact 
that  in  the  bone  caves  in  this  country  skulls  of  the 
gray  fox  are  found,  but  none  of  the  red,  it  is  in 
ferred  by  some  naturalists  that  the  red  fox  is  a 
descendant  from  the  European  species,  which  it 
resembles  in  form  but  surpasses  in  beauty,  and  its 
appearance  on  this  continent  comparatively  of  re 
cent  date. 


A  MARCH  CHRONICLE 

ON  THE  POTOMAC 

~IV  ,T~AECH  1.  —  The  first  day  of  spring  and  the 
•**-•"  first  spring  day!  I  felt  the  change  the  mo 
ment  I  put  my  head  out  of  doors  in  the  morning. 
A  fitful,  gusty  south  wind  was  blowing,  though  the 
sky  was  clear.  But  the  sunlight  was  not  the  same. 
There  was  an  interfusion  of  a  new  element.  Not 
ten  days  before  there  had  been  a  day  just  as  bright, 
—  even  brighter  and  warmer,  —  a  clear,  crystalline 
day  of  February,  with  nothing  vernal  in  it;  but 
this  day  was  opaline;  there  was  a  film,  a  sentiment 
in  it,  a  nearer  approach  to  life.  Then  there  was 
that  fresh,  indescribable  odor,  a  breath  from  the 
Gulf,  or  from  Florida  and  the  Carolinas,  —  a  subtle, 
persuasive  influence  that  thrilled  the  sense.  Every 
root  and  rootlet  under  ground  must  have  felt  it; 
the  buds  of  the  soft  maple  and  silver  poplar  felt 
it,  and  swelled  perceptibly  during  the  day.  The 
robins  knew  it,  and  were  here  that  morning;  so 
were  the  crow  blackbirds.  The  shad  must  have 
known  it,  down  deep  in  their  marine  retreats,  and 
leaped  and  sported  about  the  mouths  of  the  rivers, 


86  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

ready  to  dart  up  them  if  the  genial  influence  con 
tinued.  The  bees  in  the  hive  also,  or  in  the  old 
tree  in  the  woods,  no  doubt  awoke  to  new  life;  and 
the  hibernating  animals,  the  bears  and  woodchucks, 
rolled  up  in  their  subterranean  dens,  —  I  imagine 
the  warmth  reached  even  *,hem,  and  quickened  their 
sluggish  circulation. 

Then  in  the  afternoon  there  was  the  smell  of 
smoke,  —  the  first  spring  fires  in  the  open  air.  The 
Virginia  farmer  is  raking  together  the  rubbish  in  his 
garden,  or  in  the  field  he  is  preparing  for  the  plow, 
and  burning  it  up.  In  imagination  I  am  there  to 
help  him.  I  see  the  children  playing  about,  de 
lighted  with  the  sport  and  the  resumption  of  work; 
the  smoke  goes  up  through  the  shining  haze;  the 
farmhouse  door  stands  open,  and  lets  in  the  after 
noon  sun;  the  cow  lows  for  her  calf,  or  hides  it  in 
the  woods;  and  in  the  morning  the  geese,  sporting 
in  the  spring  sun,  answer  the  call  of  the  wild  flock 
steering  northward  above  them. 

As  I  stroll  through  the  market  I  see  the  signs 
here.  That  old  colored  woman  has  brought  spring 
in  her  basket  in  those  great  green  flakes  of  moss, 
with  arbutus  showing  the  pink;  and  her  old  man 
is  just  in  good  time  with  his  fruit-trees  and  goose 
berry  bushes.  Various  bulbs  and  roots  are  also 
being  brought  out  and  offered,  and  the  onions  are 
sprouting  on  the  stands.  I  see  bunches  of  robins 
and  cedar-birds  also,  —  so  much  melody  and  beauty 
cut  off  from  the  supply  going  north.  The  fish  mar 
ket  is  beginning  to  be  bright  with  perch  and  bass, 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE  87 

and  with  shad  from  the  Southern  rivers,  and  wild 
ducks  are  taking  the  place  of  prairie  hens  and  quails. 

In  the  Carolinas,  no  doubt,  the  fruit-trees  are  in 
bloom,  and  the  rice  land  is  being  prepared  for  the 
seed.  In  the  mountains  of  Virginia  and  in  Ohio 
they  are  making  maple  sugar;  in  Kentucky  and 
Tennessee  they  are  sowing  oats;  in  Illinois  they 
are,  perchance,  husking  the  corn  which  has  remained 
on  the  stalk  in  the  field  all  winter.  Wild  geese 
and  ducks  are  streaming  across  the  sky  from  the 
lower  Mississippi  toward  the  great  lakes,  pausing  a 
while  on  the  prairies,  or  alighting  in  the  great  corn 
fields,  making  the  air  resound  with  the  noise  of 
their  wings  upon  the  stalks  and  dry  shucks  as  they 
resume  their  journey.  About  this  time,  or  a  little 
later,  in  the  still  spring  morning,  the  prairie  hens 
or  prairie  cocks  set  up  that  low,  musical  cooing  or 
crowing  that  defies  the  ear  to  trace  or  locate.  The 
air  is  filled  with  that  soft,  mysterious  undertone; 
and,  save  that  a  bird  is  seen  here  and  there  flitting 
low  over  the  ground,  the  sportsman  walks  for  hours 
without  coming  any  nearer  the  source  of  the  elusive 
sound. 

All  over  a  certain  belt  of  the  country  the  rivers 
and  streams  are  roily,  and  chafe  their  banks.  There 
is  a  movement  of  the  soils.  The  capacity  of  the 
water  to  take  up  and  hold  in  solution  the  salt  and 
earths  seemed  never  so  great  before.  The  frost  has 
relinquished  its  hold,  and  turned  everything  over  to 
the  water.  Mud  is  the  mother  now;  and  out  of  it 
creep  the  frogs,  the  turtles,  the  crawfish. 


88  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

In  the  North  how  goes  the  season?  The  winter 
is  perchance  just  breaking  up.  The  old  frost  king 
is  just  striking,  or  preparing  to  strike,  his  tents. 
The  ice  is  going  out  of  the  rivers,  and  the  first 
steamboat  on  the  Hudson  is  picking  its  way  through 
the  blue  lanes  and  channels.  The  white  gulls  are 
making  excursions  up  from  the  bay,  to  see  what  the 
prospects  are.  In  the  lumber  countries,  along  the 
upper  Kennebec  and  Penobscot,  and  along  the  north 
ern  Hudson,  starters  are  at  work  with  their  pikes 
and  hooks  starting  out  the  pine  logs  on  the  first 
spring  freshet.  All  winter,  through  the  deep  snows, 
they  have  been  hauling  them  to  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  or  placing  them  where  the  tide  would  reach 
them.  Now,  in  countless  numbers,  beaten  and 
bruised,  the  trunks  of  the  noble  trees  come,  borne 
by  the  angry  flood.  The  snow  that  furnishes  the 
smooth  bed  over  which  they  were  drawn,  now  melted, 
furnishes  the  power  that  carries  them  down  to  the 
mills.  On  the  Delaware  the  raftsmen  are  at  work 
running  out  their  rafts.  Floating  islands  of  logs 
and  lumber  go  down  the  swollen  stream,  bending 
over  the  dams,  shooting  through  the  rapids,  and 
bringing  up  at  last  in  Philadelphia  or  beyond. 

In  the  inland  farming  districts  what  are  the  signs  ? 
Few  and  faint,  but  very  suggestive.  The  sun  has 
power  to  melt  the  snow;  and  in  the  meadows  all 
the  knolls  are  bare,  and  the  sheep  are  gnawing  them 
industriously.  The  drifts  on  the  side-hills  also 
begin  to  have  a  worn  and  dirty  look,  and,  where 
they  cross  the  highway,  to  become  soft,  letting  the 


A   MARCH   CHRONICLE  89 

teams  in  up  to  their  bellies.  The  oxen  labor  and 
grunt,  or  patiently  wait  for  the  shovel  to  release 
them;  but  the  spirited  horse  leaps  and  flounders, 
and  is  determined  not  to  give  up.  In  the  woods 
the  snow  is  melted  around  the  trees,  and  the  burrs 
and  pieces  of  bark  have  absorbed  the  heat  till  they 
have  sunk  half  way  through  to  the  ground.  .  The 
snow  is  melting  on  the  under  side ;  the  frost  is  going 
out  of  the  ground:  now  comes  the  trial  of  your 
foundations. 

About  the  farm  buildings  there  awakens  the  old 
familiar  chorus,  the  bleating  of  calves  and  lambs, 
and  the  answering  bass  of  their  distressed  mothers; 
while  the  hens  are  cackling  in  the  hay-loft,  and  the 
geese  are  noisy  in  the  spring  run.  But  the  most 
delightful  of  all  farm  work,  or  of  all  rural  occupa 
tions,  is  at  hand,  namely,  sugar-making.  In  New 
York  and  northern  New  England  the  beginning  of 
this  season  varies  from  the  first  to  the  middle  of 
March,  sometimes  even  holding  off  till  April.  The 
moment  the  contest  between  the  sun  and  frost  fairly 
begins,  sugar  Aveather  begins;  and  the  more  even 
the  contest,  the  more  the  sweet.  I  do  not  know 
what  the  philosophy  of  it  is,  but  it  seems  a  kind  of 
see-saw,  as  if  the  sun  drew  the  sap  up  and  the 
frost  drew  it  down;  and  an  excess  of  either  stops 
the  flow.  Before  the  sun  has  got  power  to  unlock 
the  frost,  there  is  no  sap;  and  after  the  frost  has 
lost  its  power  to  lock  up  again  the  work  of  the  sun, 
there  is  no  sap.  But  when  it  freezes  soundly  at 
night,  with  a  bright,  warm  sun  next  day,  wind  in 


90  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

the  west,  and  no  signs  of  a  storm,  the  veins  of  the 
maples  fairly  thrill.  Pierce  the  bark  anywhere,  and 
out  gushes  the  clear,  sweet  liquid.  But  let  the 
wind  change  to  the  south  and  blow  moist  and  warm, 
destroying  that  crispness  of  the  air,  and  the  flow 
slackens  at  once,  unless  there  be  a  deep  snow  in  the 
woods  to  counteract  or  neutralize  the  warmth,  in 
which  case  the  run  may  continue  till  the  rain  sets 
in.  The  rough-coated  old  trees,  —  one  would  not 
think  they  could  scent  a  change  so  quickly  through 
that  wrapper  of  dead,  dry  bark  an  inch  or  more 
thick.  I  have  to  wait  till  I  put  my  head  out  of 
doors,  and  feel  the  air  on  my  bare  cheek,  and  sniff 
it  with  my  nose ;  but  their  nerves  of  taste  and  smell 
are  no  doubt  under  ground,  imbedded  in  the  moist 
ure,  and  if  there  is  anything  that  responds  quickly 
to  atmospheric  changes  it  is  water.  Do  not  the 
fish,  think  you,  down  deep  in  the  streams,  feel 
every  wind  that  blows,  whether  it  be  hot  or  cold? 
Do  not  the  frogs  and  newts  and  turtles  under  the 
mud  feel  the  warmth,  though  the  water  still  seems 
like  ice?  As  the  springs  begin  to  rise  in  advance 
of  the  rain,  so  the  intelligence  of  every  change  seems 
to  travel  ahead  under  ground  and  forewarn  things. 

A  "  sap- run "  seldom  lasts  more  than  two  or 
three  days.  By  that  time  there  is  a  change  in  the 
weather,  perhaps  a  rainstorm,  which  takes  the  frost 
nearly  all  out  of  the  ground.  Then,  before  there 
can  be  another  run,  the  trees  must  be  wound  up 
again,  the  storm  must  have  a  white  tail,  and  "  come 
off"  cold.  Presently  the  sun  rises  clear  again,  and 


A   MARCH   CHKONICLE  91 

cuts  the  snow  or  softens  the  hard-frozen  ground 
with  his  beams,  and  the  trees  take  a  fresh  start. 
The  boys  go  through  the  wood,  emptying  out  the 
buckets  or  the  pans,  and  reclaiming  those  that  have 
blown  away,  and  the  delightful  work  is  resumed. 
But  the  first  run,  like  first  love,  is  always  the  best, 
always  the  fullest,  always  the  sweetest;  while  there 
is  a  purity  and  delicacy  of  flavor  about  the  sugar 
that  far  surpasses  any  subsequent  yield. 

Trees  differ  much  in  the  quantity  as  well  as  in 
the  quality  of  sap  produced  in  a  given  season.  In 
deed,  in  a  bush  or  orchard  of  fifty  or  one  hundred 
trees,  as  wide  a  difference  may  be  observed  in  this 
respect  as  among  that  number  of  cows  in  regard  to 
the  milk  they  yield.  I  have  in  my  mind  now  a 
"  sugar- bush  "  nestled  in  the  lap  of  a  spur  of  the 
Catskills,  every  tree  of  which  is  known  to  me,  and 
assumes  a  distinct  individuality  in  my  thought.  I 
know  the  look  and  quality  of  the  whole  two  hun 
dred  ;  and  when  on  my  annual  visit  to  the  old  home 
stead  I  find  one  has  perished,  or  fallen  before  the 
axe,  I  feel  a  personal  loss.  They  are  all  veterans, 
and  have  yielded  up  their  life's  blood  for  the  profit 
of  two  or  three  generations.  They  stand  in  little 
groups  or  couples.  One  stands  at  the  head  of  a 
spring  run,  and  lifts  a  large  dry  branch  high  above 
the  woods,  where  hawks  and  crows  love  to  alight. 
Half  a  dozen  are  climbing  a  little  hill;  while  others 
stand  far  out  in  the  field,  as  if  they  had  come  out 
to  get  the  sun.  A  file  of  five  or  six  worthies  sentry 
the  woods  on  the  northwest,  and  confront  a  steep 


92  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

side-hill  where  sheep  and  cattle  graze.  An  equal 
number  crowd  up  to  the  line  on  the  east;  and  their 
gray,  stately  trunks  are  seen  across  meadows  or 
fields  of  grain.  Then  there  is  a  pair  of  Siamese 
twins,  with  heavy,  bushy  tops;  while  in  the  forks 
of  a  wood-road  stand  the  two  brothers,  with  their 
arms  around  each  other's  neck,  and  their  bodies  in 
gentle  contact  for  a  distance  of  thirty  feet. 

One  immense  maple,  known  as  the  "old-cream- 
pan-tree,"  stands,  or  did  stand,  quite  alone  among 
a  thick  growth  of  birches  and  beeches.  But  it  kept 
its  end  up,  and  did  the  work  of  two  or  three  ordi 
nary  trees,  as  its  name  denotes.  Next  to  it  the 
best  milcher  in  the  lot  was  a  shaggy-barked  tree  in 
the  edge  of  the  field,  that  must  have  been  badly 
crushed  or  broken  when  it  was  little,  for  it  had  an 
ugly  crook  near  the  ground,  and  seemed  to  struggle 
all  the  way  up  to  get  in  an  upright  attitude,  but 
never  quite  succeeded;  yet  it  could  outrun  all  its 
neighbors  nevertheless.  The  poorest  tree  in  the  lot 
was  a  short-bodied,  heavy-topped  tree  that  stood  in 
the  edge  of  a  spring-run.  It  seldom  produced  half 
a  gallon  of  sap  during  the  whole  season;  but  this 
half  gallon  was  very  sweet,  —  three  or  four  times  as 
sweet  as  the  ordinary  article.  In  the  production  of 
sap,  top  seems  far  less  important  than  body.  It  is 
not  length  of  limb  that  wins  in  this  race,  but  length 
of  trunk.  A  heavy,  bushy-topped  tree  in  the  open 
field,  for  instance,  will  not,  according  to  my  obser 
vation,  compare  with  a  tall,  long-tnmked  tree  in 
the  woods,  that  has  but  a  small  top.  Young,  thrifty, 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE  93 

thin-skinned  trees  start  up  with  great  spirit,  indeed, 
fairly  on  a  run ;  but  they  do  not  hold  out,  and  their 
blood  is  very  diluted.  Cattle  are  very  fond  of  sap; 
so  are  sheep,  and  will  drink  enough  to  kill  them. 
The  honey-bees  get  here  their  first  sweet,  and  the 
earliest  bug  takes  up  his  permanent  abode  on  the 
"spile."  The  squirrels  also  come  timidly  down 
the  trees,  and  sip  the  sweet  flow;  and  occasionally 
an  ugly  lizard,  just  out  of  its  winter  quarters  and  in 
quest  of  novelties,  creeps  up  into  the  pan  or  bucket. 
Soft  maple  makes  a  very  fine  white  sugar,  superior 
in  quality,  but  far  less  in  quantity. 

I  think  any  person  who  has  tried  it  will  agree 
with  me  about  the  charm  of  sugar-making,  though 
he  have  no  tooth  for  the  sweet  itself.  It  is  enough 
that  it  is  the  first  spring  work,  and  takes  one  to  the 
woods.  The  robins  are  just  arriving,  and  their 
merry  calls  ring  through  the  glades.  The  squirrels 
are  now  venturing  out,  and  the  woodpeckers  and 
nuthatches  run  briskly  up  the  trees.  The  crow 
begins  to  caw,  with  his  accustomed  heartiness  and 
assurance;  and  one  sees  the  white  rump  and  golden 
shafts  of  the  high-hole  as  he  flits  about  the  open 
woods.  Next  week,  or  the  week  after,  it  may  be 
time  to  begin  plowing,  and  other  sober  work  about 
the  farm;  but  this  week  we  Avill  picnic  among  the 
maples,  and  our  camp-fire  shall  be  an  incense  to 
spring.  Ah,  I  am  there  now !  I  see  the  woods 
flooded  with  sunlight;  I  smell  the  dry  leaves,  and 
the  mould  under  them  just  quickened  by  the  warmth ; 
the  long-trunked  maples  in  their  gray,  rough  liveries 


94  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

stand  thickly  about;  I  see  the  brimming  pans  and 
buckets,  always  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  trees,  and 
hear  the  musical  dropping  of  the  sap;  the  "boiling- 
place,"  with  its  delightful  camp  features,  is  just  be 
yond  the  first  line,  with  its  great  arch  looking  to  the 
southwest.  The  sound  of  its  axe  rings  through  the 
woods.  Its  huge  kettles  or  broad  pans  boil  and 
foam;  and  I  ask  no  other  delight  than  to  watch  and 
tend  them  all  day,  to  dip  the  sap  from  the  great 
casks  into  them,  and  to  replenish  the  fire  with  the 
newly-cut  birch  and  beech  wood.  A  slight  breeze 
is  blowing  from  the  west;  I  catch  the  glint  here 
and  there  in  the  afternoon  sun  of  the  little  rills  and 
creeks  coursing  down  the  sides  of  the  hills;  the 
awakening  sounds  about  the  farm  and  the  woods 
reach  my  ear;  and  every  rustle  or  movement  of  the 
air  or  on  the  earth  seems  like  a  pulse  of  returning 
life  in  nature.  I  sympathize  with  that  verdant 
Hibernian  who  liked  sugar-making  so  well  that  he 
thought  he  should  follow  it  the  whole  year.  I 
should  at  least  be  tempted  to  follow  the  season  up 
the  mountains,  camping  this  week  on  one  terrace, 
next  week  on  one  farther  up,  keeping  just  on  the 
hem  of  Winter's  garment,  and  just  in  advance  of 
the  swelling  buds,  until  my  smoke  went  up  through 
the  last  growth  of  maple  that  surrounds  the  summit. 
Maple  sugar  is  peculiarly  an  American  product, 
the  discovery  of  it  dating  back  into  the  early  history 
of  New  England.  The  first  settlers  usually  caught 
the  sap  in  rude  troughs,  and  boiled  it  down  in  ket 
tles  slung  to  a  pole  by  a  chain,  the  fire  being  built 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE  95 

around  them.  The  first  step  in  the  way  of  improve 
ment  was  to  use  tin  pans  instead  of  troughs,  and  a 
large  stone  arch  in  which  the  kettles  or  caldrons 
were  set  with  the  fire  beneath  them.  But  of  late 
years,  as  the  question  of  fuel  has  become  a  more  im 
portant  one,  greater  improvements  have  been  made. 
The  arch  has  given  place  to  an  immense  stove  de 
signed  for  that  special  purpose;  and  the  kettles  to 
broad,  shallow,  sheet- iron  pans,  the  object  being  to 
economize  all  the  heat,  and  to  obtain  the  greatest 
possible  extent  of  evaporating  surface. 

March  15.  —  From  the  first  to  the  middle  of 
March  the  season  made  steady  progress.  There 
were  no  checks,  no  drawbacks.  Warm,  copious 
rains  from  the  south  and  southwest,  followed  by 
days  of  unbroken  sunshine.  In  the  moist  places  — 
and  wbat  places  are  not  moist  at  this  season  ?  —  the 
sod  buzzed  like  a  hive.  The  absorption  and  filtra 
tion  among  the  network  of  roots  was  an  audible 
process. 

The  clod  fairly  sang.  How  the  trees  responded 
also !  The  silver  poplars  were  masses  of  soft  gray 
bloom,  and  the  willows  down  toward  the  river 
seemed  to  have  slipped  off  their  old  bark  and  on 
their  new  in  a  single  night.  The  soft  maples,  too, 
when  massed  in  the  distance,  their  tops  deeply  dyed 
in  a  bright  maroon  color,  —  how  fair  they  looked ! 

The  loth  of  the  month  was  "  one  of  those  charmed 
days  when  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow."  The 
wind  died  away  by  mid-forenoon,  and  the  day  set 
tled  down  so  softly  and  lovingly  upon  the  earth, 


96  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

touching  everything,  fiDing  everything.  The  sky 
visibly  came  down.  You  could  see  it  among  the 
trees  and  between  the  hills.  The  sun  poured  him 
self  into  the  earth  as  into  a  cup,  and  the  atmosphere 
fairly  swam  with  warmth  and  light.  In  the  after 
noon  I  walked  out  over  the  country  roads  north  of 
the  city.  Innumerable  columns  of  smoke  were  going 
up  all  around  the  horizon  from  burning  brush  and 
weeds,  fields  being  purified  by  fire.  The  farmers 
were  hauling  out  manure;  and  I  am  free  to  confess, 
the  odor  of  it,  with  its  associations  of  the  farm  and 
the  stable,  of  cattle  and  horses,  was  good  in  my  nos 
trils.  In  the  woods  the  liverleaf  and  arbutus  had 
just  opened  doubtingly;  and  in  the  little  pools  great 
masses  of  frogs'  spawn,  with  a  milky  tinge,  were 
deposited.  The  youth  who  accompanied  me  brought 
some  of  it  home  in  his  handkerchief,  to  see  it  hatch 
in  a  goblet. 

The  month  came  in  like  a  lamb,  and  went  out 
like  a  lamb,  setting  at  naught  the  old  adage.  The 
white  fleecy  clouds  lay  here  and  there,  as  if  at  rest, 
on  the  blue  sky.  The  fields  were  a  perfect  emerald ; 
and  the  lawns,  with  the  new  gold  of  the  first  dan 
delions  sprinkled  about,  were  lush  with  grass.  In 
the  parks  and  groves  there  was  a  faint  mist  of  foli 
age,  except  among  the  willows,  where  there  was  not 
only  a  mist,  but  a  perfect  fountain-fall  of  green.  In 
the  distance  the  river  looked  blue ;  the  spring  fresh 
ets  at  last  over;  and  the  ground  settled,  and  the 
jocund  season  steps  forth  into  April  with  a  bright 
and  confident  look. 


VI 

AUTUMN  TIDES 

rpHE  season  is  always  a  little  behind  the  sun  in 
-*!•  our  climate,  just  as  the  tide  is  always  a  little 
behind  the  moon.  According  to  the  calendar,  the 
summer  ought  to  culminate  about  the  21st  of  June, 
but  in  reality  it  is  some  weeks  later;  June  is  a 
maiden  month  all  through.  It  is  not  high  noon  in 
nature  till  about  the  first  or  second  week  in  July. 
When  the  chestnut-tree  blooms,  the  meridian  of  the 
year  is  reached.  By  the  first  of  August  it  is  fairly 
one  o'clock.  The  lustre  of  the  season  begins  to 
dim,  the  foliage  of  the  trees  and  woods  to  tarnish, 
the  plumage  of  the  birds  to  fade,  and  their  songs  to 
cease.  The  hints  of  approaching  fall  are  on  every 
hand.  How  suggestive  this  thistle-down,  for  in 
stance,  which,  as  I  sit  by  the  open  window,  comes 
in  and  brushes  softly  across  my  hand!  The  first 
snowflake  tells  of  winter  not  more  plainly  than  this 
driving  down  heralds  the  approach  of  fall.  Come 
here,  my  fairy,  and  tell  me  whence  you  come  and 
whither  you  go?  What  brings  you  to  port  here, 
you  gossamer  ship  sailing  the  great  sea?  How  ex 
quisitely  frail  and  delicate!  One  of  the  lightest 
things  in  nature;  so  light  that  in  the  closed  room 


98  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

here  it  will  hardly  rest  in  my  open  palm.  A  feather 
is  a  clod  beside  it.  Only  a  spider's  web  will  hold 
it;  coarser  objects  have  no  power  over  it.  Caught 
in  the  upper  currents  of  the  air  and  rising  above  the 
clouds,  it  might  sail  perpetually.  Indeed,  one  fan 
cies  it  might  almost  traverse  the  interstellar  ether 
and  drive  against  the  stars.  And  every  thistle-head 
by  the  roadside  holds  hundreds  of  these  sky  rovers, 
—  imprisoned  Ariels  unable  to  set  themselves  free. 
Their  liberation  may  be  by  the  shock  of  the  wind, 
or  the  rude  contact  of  cattle,  but  it  is  oftener  the 
work  of  the  goldfinch  with  its  complaining  brood. 
The  seed  of  the  thistle  is  the  proper  food  of  this 
bird,  and  in  obtaining  it  myriads  of  these  winged 
creatures  are  scattered  to  the  breeze.  Each  one  is 
fraught  with  a  seed  which  it  exists  to  sow,  but  its 
wild  careering  and  soaring  does  not  fairly  begin  till 
its  burden  is  dropped,  and  its  spheral  form  is  com 
plete.  The  seeds  of  many  plants  and  trees  are  dis 
seminated  through  the  agency  of  birds;  but  the 
thistle  furnishes  its  own  birds,  —  flocks  of  them, 
with  wings  more  ethereal  and  tireless  than  were 
ever  given  to  mortal  creature.  From  the  pains 
Nature  thus  takes  to  sow  the  thistle  broadcast  over 
the  land,  it  might  be  expected  to  be  one  of  the  most 
troublesome  and  abundant  of  weeds.  But  such  is 
not  the  case;  tb^  more  pernicious  and  baffling 
weeds,  like  snapdragon  or  blind  nettles,  being  more 
local  and  restricted  in  their  habits,  and  unable  to 
fly  at  all. 

In  the  fall,  the  battles  of  the  spring  are  fought 


AUTUiMN    TIDES  99 

over  again,  beginning  at  the  other  or  little  end  of 
the  series.  There  is  the  same  advance  and  retreat, 
with  many  feints  and  alarms,  between  the  contend 
ing  forces,  that  was  witnessed  in  April  and  May. 
The  spring  comes  like  a  tide  running  against  a 
strong  wind;  it  is  ever  beaten  back,  but  ever  gain 
ing  ground,  with  now  and  then  a  mad  "push  upon 
the  land "  as  if  to  overcome  its  antagonist  at  one 
blow.  The  cold  from  the  north  encroaches  upon  us 
in  about  the  same  fashion.  In  September  or  early 
in  October  it  usually  makes  a  big  stride  forward  and 
blackens  all  the  more  delicate  plants,  and  hastens 
the  "mortal  ripening"  of  the  foliage  of  the  trees, 
but  it  is  presently  beaten  back  again  and  the  genial 
warmth  repossesses  the  land.  Before  long,  how 
ever,  the  cold  returns  to  the  charge  with  augmented 
forces  and  gains  much  ground. 

The  course  of  the  seasons  never  does  run  smooth, 
owing  to  the  unequal  distribution  of  land  and  water, 
mountain,  wood,  and  plain. 

An  equilibrium,  however,  is  usually  reached  in 
our  climate  in  October,  sometimes  the  most  marked 
in  November,  forming  the  delicious  Indian  summer; 
a  truce  is  declared,  and  both  forces,  heat  and  cold, 
meet  and  mingle  in  friendly  converse  on  the  field. 
In  the  earlier  season,  this  poise  of  the  temperature, 
this  slack- water  in  nature,  conies  in  May  and  June ; 
but  the  October  calm  is  most  marked.  Day  after 
day,  and  sometimes  week  after  week,  you  cannot  tell 
which  way  the  current  is  setting.  Indeed,  there  is 
no  current,  but  the  season  seems  to  drift  a  little  this 


100  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

way  or  a  little  that,  just  as  the  breeze  happens  to 
freshen  a  little  in  one  quarter  or  the  other.  The 
fall  of  '74  was  the  most  remarkahle  in  this  respect 
I  remember  ever  to  have  seen.  The  equilibrium  of 
the  season  lasted  from  the  middle  of  October  till 
near  December,  with  scarcely  a  break.  There  were 
six  weeks  of  Indian  summer,  all  gold  by  day,  and, 
when  the  moon  came,  all  silver  by  night.  The 
river  was  so  smooth  at  times  as  to  be  almost  invisi 
ble,  and  in  its  place  was  the  indefinite  continuation 
of  the  opposite  shore  down  toward  the  nether  world. 
One  seemed  to  be  in  an  enchanted  land,  and  to 
breathe  all  day  the  atmosphere  of  fable  and  romance. 
Not  a  smoke,  but  a  kind  of  shining  nimbus  filled  all 
the  spaces.  The  vessels  would  drift  by  as  if  in  mid 
air  with  all  their  sails  set.  The  gypsy  blood  in 
one,  as  Lowell  calls  it,  could  hardly  stay  between 
four  walls  and  see  such  days  go  by.  '  Living  in 
tents,  in  groves  and  on  the  hills,  seemed  the  only 
natural  life. 

Late  in  December  we  had  glimpses  of  the  same 
weather,  — the  earth  had  not  yet  passed  all  the 
golden  isles.  On  the  27th  of  that  month,  I  find  I 
made  this  entry  in  my  note-book:  "A  soft,  hazy 
day,  the  year  asleep  and  dreaming  of  the  Indian 
summer  again.  Not  a  breath  of  air  and  not  a  rip 
ple  on  the  river.  The  sunshine  is  hot  as  it  falls 
across  my  table." 

But  what  a  terrible  winter  followed !  what  a  sav 
age  chief  the  fair  Indian  maiden  gave  birth  to! 

This  halcyon  period  of  our  autumn  will  always  in 


AUTUMN   TIDES  101 

some  way  be  associated  with  the  Indian.  It  is  red 
and  yellow  and  dusky  like  him.  The  smoke  of  his 
camp-fire  seems  again  in  the  air.  The  memory  of 
him  pervades  the  woods.  His  plumes  and  mocca 
sins  and  blanket  of  skins  form  just  the  costume  the 
season  demands.  It  was  doubtless  his  chosen  pe 
riod.  The  gods  smiled  upon  him  then  if  ever. 
The  time  of  the  chase,  the  season  of  the  buck  and 
the  doe,  and  of  the  ripening  of  all  forest  fruits;  the 
time  when  all  men  are  incipienj;  hunters,  when  the 
first  frosts  have  given  pungency  to  the  air,  when  to 
be  abroad  on  the  hills  or  in  the  woods  is  a  delight 
that  both  old  and  young  feel,  —  if  the  red  aborigine 
ever  had  his  summer  of  fullness  and  contentment, 
it  must  have  been  at  this  season,  and  it  fitly  bears 
his  name. 

In  how  many  respects  fall  imitates  or  parodies 
the  spring!  It  is  indeed,  in  some  of  its  features,  a 
sort  of  second  youth  of  the  year.  Things  emerge 
and  become  conspicuous  again.  The  trees  attract 
all  eyes  as  in  May.  The  birds  come  forth  from 
their  summer  privacy  and  parody  their  spring  reun 
ions  and  rivalries;  some  of  them  sing  a  little  after 
a  silence  of  months.  The  robins,  bluebirds,  meadow- 
larks,  sparrows,  crows,  all  sport,  and  call,  and  be 
have  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  spring.  The  cock 
grouse  drums  in  the  woods  as  he  did  in  April  and 
May.  The  pigeons  reappear,  and  the  wild  geese 
and  ducks.  The  witch-hazel  blooms.  The  trout 
spawns.  The  streams  are  again  full.  The  air  is 
humid,  and  the  moisture  rises  in  the  ground.  Na- 


102  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

ture  is  breaking  camp,  as  in  spring  she  was  going 
into  camp.  The  spring  yearning  and  restlessness 
is  represented  in  one  by  the  increased  desire  to 
travel. 

Spring  is  the  inspiration,  fall  the  expiration. 
Both  seasons  have  their  equinoxes,  both  their  filmy, 
hazy  air,  their  ruddy  forest  tints,  their  cold  rains, 
their  drenching  fogs,  their  mystic  moons;  both  have 
the  same  solar  light  and  warmth,  the  same  rays  of 
the  sun;  yet,  after  all,  how  different  the  feelings 
which  they  inspire !  One  is  the  morning,  the  other 
the  evening;  one  is  youth, *the  other  is  age. 

The  difference  is  not  merely  in  us;  there  is  a 
subtle  difference  in  the  air,  and  in  the  influences 
that  emanate  upon  us  from  the  dumb  forms  of 
nature.  All  the  senses  report  a  difference.  The 
sun  seems  to  have  burned  out.  One  recalls  the 
notion  of  Herodotus  that  he  is  grown  feeble,  and 
retreats  to  the  south  because  he  can  no  longer  face 
the  cold  and  the  storms  from  the  north.  There  is 
a  growing  potency  about  his  beams  in  spring,  a  wan 
ing  splendor  about  them  in  fall.  One  is  the  kindling 
fire,  the  other  the  subsiding  flame. 

It  is  rarely  that  an  artist  succeeds  in  painting 
unmistakably  the  difference  between  sunrise  and 
sunset;  and  it  is  equally  a  trial  of  his  skill  to  put 
upon  canvas  the  difference  between  early  spring  and 
late  fall,  say  between  April  and  November.  It 
was  long  ago  observed  that  the  shadows  are  more 
opaque  in  the  morning  than  in  the  evening;  the 
struggle  between  the  light  and  the  darkness  more 


AUTUMN   TIDES  103 

marked,  the  gloom  more  solid,  the  contrasts  more 
sharp,  etc.  The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  chisel  out 
and  cut  down  the  shadows  in  a  way  those  of  the 
setting  sun  do  not.  Then  the  sunlight  is  whiter 
and  newer  in  the  morning,  —  not  so  yellow  and  dif 
fused.  A  difference  akin  to  this  is  true  of  the  two 
seasons  I  am  speaking  of.  The  spring  is  the  morn 
ing  sunlight,  clear  and  determined ;  the  autumn,  the 
afternoon  rays,  pensive,  lessening,  golden. 

Does  not  the  human  frame  yield  to  and  sympa 
thize  with  the  seasons  ?  Are  there  not  more  births 
in  the  spring  and  more  deaths  in  the  fall?  In  the 
spring  one  vegetates;  his  thoughts  turn  to  sap;  an 
other  kind  of  activity  seizes  him;  he  makes  new 
wood  which  does  not  harden  till  past  midsummer. 
For  my  part,  I  find  all  literary  work  irksome  from 
April  to  August;  my  sympathies  run  in  other  chan 
nels;  the  grass  grows  where  meditation  walked. 
As  fall  approaches,  the  currents  mount  to  the  head 
again.  But  my  thoughts  do  not  ripen  well  till 
after  there  has  been  a  frost.  The  burrs  will  not 
open  much  before  that.  A  man's  thinking,  I  take 
it,  is  a  kind  of  combustion,  as  is  the  ripening  of 
fruits  and  leaves,  and  he  wants  plenty  of  oxygen  in 
the  air. 

Then  the  earth  seems  to  have  become  a  positive 
magnet  in  the  fall;  the  forge  and  anvil  of  the  sun 
have  had  their  effect.  In  the  spring  it  is  negative 
to  all  intellectual  conditions,  and  drains  one  of  his 
lightning. 

To-day,    October  21st,    I  found  the  air  in  the 


104  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

bushy  fields  and  lanes  under  the  woods  loaded  with 
the  perfume  of  the  witch-hazel,  —  a  sweetish,  sick 
ening  odor.  With  the  hlooming  of  this  hush,  Na 
ture  says,  "Positively  the  last."  It  is  a  kind  of 
birth  in  death,  of  spring  in  fall,  that  impresses  one 
as  a  little  uncanny.  All  trees  and  shrubs  form 
their  flower-buds  in  the  fall,  and  keep  the  secret 
till  spring.  How  comes  the  witch-hazel  to  be  the 
one  exception,  and  to  celebrate  its  floral  nuptials  on 
the  funeral  day  of  its  foliage?  No  doubt  it  will 
be  found  that  the  spirit  of  some  lovelorn  squaw  has 
passed  into  this  bush,  and  that  this  is  why  it  blooms 
in  the  Indian  summer  rather  than  in  the  white 
man's  spring. 

But  it  makes  the  floral  series  of  the  woods  com 
plete.  Between  it  and  the  shad-blow  of  earliest 
spring  lies  the  mountain  of  bloom;  the  latter  at  the 
base  on  one  side,  this  at  the  base  on  the  other,  with 
the  chestnut  blossoms  at  the  top  in  midsummer. 

A  peculiar  feature  of  our  fall  may  sometimes  be 
seen  of  a  clear  afternoon  late  in  the  season.  Look 
ing  athwart  the  fields  under  the  sinking  sun,  the 
ground  appears  covered  with  a  shining  veil  of  gos 
samer.  A  fairy  net,  invisible  at  midday  and  which 
the  position  of  the  sun  now  reveals,  rests  upon  the 
stubble  and  upon  the  spears  of  grass,  covering  acres 
in  extent,  —  the  work  of  innumerable  little  spi 
ders.  The  cattle  walk  through  it,  but  do  not  seem 
to  break  it.  Perhaps  a  fly  would  make  his  mark 
upon  it.  At  the  same  time,  stretching  from  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  or  from  the  top  of  a  stake  in  the 


AUTUMN  TIDES  105 

fence,  and  leading  off  toward  the  sky,  may  be  seen 
the  cables  of  the  flying  spider,  —  a  fairy  bridge  from 
the  visible  to  the  invisible.  Occasionally  seen 
against  a  deep  mass  of  shadow,  and  perhaps  enlarged 
by  clinging  particles  of  dust,  they  show  quite  plainly 
and  sag  down  like  a  stretched  rope,  or  sway  and 
undulate  like  a  hawser  in  the  tide. 

They  recall  a  verse  of  our  rugged  poet,  Walt 
Whitman :  — 

"  A  noiseless  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd  where,  in  a  little  promontory,  it  stood  isolated: 
Mark'd  how,  to  explore  the  vacant,  vast  surrounding, 
It  launch'd  forth  filament,  filament,  filament  out  of  itself ; 
Ever  unreeling  them  — ever  tirelessly  spreading  them. 

"  And  you,  O  my  soul,  where  you  stand, 
Surrounded,  surrounded,  in  measureless  oceans  of  space, 
Ceaselessly  musing,  venturing,  throwing,  — 
Seeking  the  spheres  to  connect  them; 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need  be  formed  —  till  the  ductile  anchor 

hold  ; 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling,  catch  somewhere,  O  my 

soul." 

To  return  a  little,  September  may  be  described 
as  the  month  of  tall  weeds.  Where  they  have  been 
suffered  to  stand,  along  fences,  by  roadsides,  and 
in  forgotten  corners,  —  redroot,  pigweed,  ragweed, 
vervain,  goldenrod,  burdock,  elecampane,  thistles, 
teasels,  nettles,  asters,  etc.,  — how  they  lift  them 
selves  up  as  if  not  afraid  to  be  seen  now!  They 
are  all  outlaws;  every  man's  hand  is  against  them; 
yet  how  surely  they  hold  their  own!  They  love 
the  roadside,  because  here  they  are  comparatively 
safe;  and  ragged  and  dusty,  like  the  common 


106  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

tramps  that  they  are,  they  form  one  of  the  charac 
teristic  features  of  early  fall. 

I  have  often  noticed  in  what  haste  certain  weeds 
are  at  times  to  produce  their  seeds.  Redroot  will 
grow  three  or  four  feet  high  when  it  has  the  whole 
season  before  it;  but  let  it  get  a  late  start,  let  it 
come  up  in  August,  and  it  scarcely  gets  above  the 
ground  before  it  heads  out,  and  apparently  goes  to 
work  with  all  its  might  and  main  to  mature  its 
seed.  In  the  growth  of  most  plants  or  weeds, 
April  and  May  represent  their  root,  June  and  July 
their  stalk,  and  August  and  September  their  flower 
and  seed.  Hence,  when  the  stalk  months  are  stricken 
out,  as  in  the  present  case,  there  is  only  time  for  a 
shallow  root  and  a  foreshortened  head.  I  think 
most  weeds  that  get  a  late  start  show  this  curtail 
ment  of  stalk,  and  this  solicitude  to  reproduce  them 
selves.  But  I  have  not  observed  that  any  of  the 
cereals  are  so  worldly  wise.  They  have  not  had  to 
think  and  shift  for  themselves  as  the  weeds  have. 
It  does  indeed  look  like  a  kind  of  forethought  in  the 
redroot.  It  is  killed  by  the  first  frost,  and  hence 
knows  the  danger  of  delay. 

How  rich  in  color,  before  the  big  show  of  the 
tree  foliage  has  commenced,  our  roadsides  are  in 
places  in  early  autumn,  —  rich  to  the  eye  that  goes 
hurriedly  by  and  does  not  look  too  closely,  —  with 
the  profusion  of  goldenrod  and  blue  and  purple 
asters  dashed  in  upon  here  and  there  with  the  crim 
son  leaves  of  the  dwarf  sumac;  and  at  intervals, 
rising  out  of  the  fence  corner  or  crowning  a  ledge 


AUTUMN   TIDES  107 

of  rocks,  the  dark  green  of  the  cedars  with  the  still 
fire  of  the  woodbine  at  its  heart.  I  wonder  if  the 
waysides  of  other  lands  present  any  analogous  spec 
tacles  at  this  season. 

Then,  when  the  maples  have  burst  out  into  color, 
showing  like  great  bonfires  along  the  hills,  there  is 
indeed  a  feast  for  the  eye.  A  maple  before  your 
windows  in  October,  when  the  sun  shines  upon  it, 
will  make  up  for  a  good  deal  of  the  light  it  has 
excluded;  it  fills  the  room  with  a  soft  golden  glow. 

Thoreau,  I  believe,  was  the  first  to  remark  upon 
the  individuality  of  trees  of  the  same  species  with 
respect  to  their  foliage,  —  some  maples  ripening 
their  leaves  early  and  some  late,  and  some  being  of 
one  tint  and  some  of  another;  and,  moreover,  that 
each  tree  held  to  the  same  characteristics,  year  after 
year.  There  is,  indeed,  as  great  a  variety  among  the 
maples  as  among  the  trees  of  an  apple  orchard ;  some 
are  harvest  apples,  some  are  fall  apples,  and  some 
are  winter  apples,  each  with  a  tint  of  its  own. 
Those  late  ripeners  are  the  winter  varieties,  —  the 
Rhode  Island  greenings  or  swaars  of  their  kind. 
The  red  maple  is  the  early  astrachan.  Then  come 
the  red-streak,  the  yellow-sweet,  and  others.  There 
are  windfalls  among  them,  too,  as  among  the  apples, 
and  one  side  or  hemisphere  of  the  leaf  is  usually 
brighter  than  the  other. 

The  ash  has  been  less  noticed  for  its  autumnal 
foliage  than  it  deserves.  The  richest  shades  of 
plum-color  to  be  seen  —  becoming  by  and  by,  or  in 
certain  lights,  a  deep  maroon  —  are  afforded  by  this 


108  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

tree.  Then  at  a  distance  there  seems  to  be  sort  of 
bloom  on  it,  as  upon  the  grape  or  plum.  Amid  a 
grove  of  yellow  maple,  it  makes  a  most  pleasing 
contrast. 

By  mid- October,  most  of  the  Rip  Van  Winkles 
among  our  brute  creatures  have  lain  down  for  their 
winter  nap.  The  toads  and  turtles  have  buried 
themselves  in  the  earth.  The  woodchuck  is  in  his 
hibernaculum,  the  skunk  in  his,  the  mole  in  his; 
and  the  black  bear  has  his  selected,  and  will  go  in 
when  the  snow  comes.  He  does  not  like  the  looks 
of  his  big  tracks  in  the  snow.  They  publish  his 
goings  and  comings  too  plainly.  The  coon  retires 
about  the  same  time.  The  provident  wood-mice 
and  the  chipmunk  are  laying  by  a  winter  supply  of 
nuts  or  grain,  the  former  usually  in  decayed  trees, 
the  latter  in  the  ground.  I  have  observed  that  any 
unusual  disturbance  in  the  woods,  near  where  the 
chipmunk  has  his  den,  will  cause  him  to  shift  his 
quarters.  One  October,  for  many  successive  days, 
I  saw  one  carrying  into  his  hole  buckwheat  which 
he  had  stolen  from  a  near  field.  The  hole  Avas  only 
a  few  rods  from  where  we  were  getting  out  stone, 
and  as  our  work  progressed,  and  the  racket  and  up 
roar  increased,  the  chipmunk  became  alarmed.  He 
ceased  carrying  in,  and  after  much  hesitating  and 
darting  about,  and  some  prolonged  absences,  he 
began  to  carry  out;  he  had  determined  to  move;  if 
the  mountain  fell,  he,  at  least,  would  be  away  in 
time.  So,  by  mouthfuls  or  cheekfuls,  the  grain 
was  transferred  to  a  new  place.  He  did  not  make 


AUTUMN   TIDES  109 

a  "  bee  "  to  get  it  done,  but  carried  it  all  himself, 
occupying  several  days,  and  making  a  trip  about 
every  ten  minutes. 

The  red  and  gray  squirrels  do  not  lay  by  winter 
stores;  their  cheeks  are  made  without  pockets,  and 
whatever  they  transport  is  carried  in  the  teeth. 
They  are  more  or  less  active  all  winter,  but  October 
and  November  are  their  festal  months.  Invade 
some  butternut  or  hickory-nut  grove  on  a  frosty 
October  morning,  and  hear  the  red  squirrel  beat  the 
"juba"  on  a  horizontal  branch.  It  is  a  most  lively 
jig,  what  the  boys  call  a  "regular  break-down," 
interspersed  with  squeals  and  snickers  and  derisive 
laughter.  The  most  noticeable  peculiarity  about  the 
vocal  part  of  it  is  the  fact  that  it  is  a  kind  of  duet. 
In  other  words,  by  some  ventriloquial  tricks,  he  ap 
pears,  to  accompany  himself,  as  if  his  voice  split  up, 
a  part  forming  a  low  guttural  sound,  and  a  part  a 
shrill  nasal  sound. 

The  distant  bark  of  the  more  wary  gray  squirrel 
may  be  heard  about  the  same  time.  There  is  a 
teasing  and  ironical  tone  in  it  also,  but  the  gray 
squirrel  is  not  the  Puck  the  red  is. 

Insects  also  go  into  winter-quarters  by  or  before 
this  time;  the  bumble-bee,  hornet,  and  wasp.  But 
here  only  royalty  escapes;  the  queen-mother  alone 
foresees  the  night  of  winter  coming  and  the  morning 
of  spring  beyond.  The  rest  of  the  tribe  try  gypsy- 
ing  for  a  while,  but  perish  in  the  first  frosts.  The 
present  October  I  surprised  the  queen  of  the  yellow- 
jackets  in  the  woods  looking  out  a  suitable  retreat. 


110  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

The  royal  dame  was  house-hunting,  and,  on  being 
disturbed  by  my  inquisitive  poking  among  the 
leaves,  she  got  up  and  flew  away  with  a  slow,  deep 
hum.  Her  body  was  unusually  distended,  whether 
with  fat  or  eggs  I  am  unable  to  say.  In  Septem 
ber  I  took  down  the  nest  of  the  black  hornet  and 
found  several  large  queens  in  it,  but  the  workers 
had  all  gone.  The  queens  were  evidently  weather 
ing  the  first  frosts  and  storms  here,  and  waiting  for 
the  Indian  summer  to  go  forth  and  seek  a  permanent 
winter  abode.  If  the  covers  could  be  taken  off  the 
fields  and  woods  at  this  season,  how  many  interest 
ing  facts  of  natural  history  would  be  revealed !  —  the 
crickets,  ants,  bees,  reptiles,  animals,  and,  for  aught 
I  know,  the  spiders  and  flies  asleep  or  getting  ready 
to  sleep  in  their  winter  dormitories;  the  fires  of  life 
banked  up,  and  burning  just  enough  to  keep  the 
spark  over  till  spring. 

The  fish  all  run  down  the  stream  in  the  fall  ex 
cept  the  trout;  it  runs  up  or  stays  up  and  spawns 
in  November,  the  male  becoming  as  brilliantly  tinted 
as  the  deepest-dyed  maple  leaf.  I  have  often  won 
dered  why  the  trout  spawns  in  the  fall,  instead  of 
in  the  spring  like  other  fish.  Is  it  not  because  a 
full  supply  of  clear  spring  water  can  be  counted  on 
at  that  season  more  than  at  any  other?  The  brooks 
are  not  so  liable  to  be  suddenly  muddied  by  heavy 
showers,  and  defiled  with  the  washings  of  the  roads 
and  fields,  as  they  are  in  spring  and  summer.  The 
artificial  breeder  finds  that  absolute  purity  of  water 


AUTUMN   TIDES  111 

is  necessary  to  hatch  the  spawn ;  also  that  shade  and 
a  low  temperature  are  indispensable. 

Our  Northern  November  day  itself  is  like  spring 
water.  It  is  melted  frost,  dissolved  snow.  There 
is  a  chill  in  it  and  an  exhilaration  also.  The  fore 
noon  is  all  morning  and  the  afternoon  all  evening. 
The  shadows  seem  to  come  forth  and  to  revenge 
themselves  upon  the  day.  The  sunlight  is  diluted 
with  darkness.  The  colors  fade  from  the  landscape, 
and  only  the  sheen  of  the  river  lights  up  the  gray 
and  brown  distance. 


vn 

THE  APPLE 

Lo !  sweetened  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 
Drops  in  silent  autumn  night. 

TENNYSON. 

"VTOT  a  little  of  the  sunshine  of  our  Northern 
-*-^  winters  is  surely  wrapped  up  in  the  apple. 
How  could  we  winter  over  without  it !  How  is  life 
sweetened  by  its  mild  acids !  A  cellar  well  filled  with 
apples  is  more  valuable  than  a  chamber  filled  with 
flax  and  wool.  So  much  sound,  ruddy  life  to  draw 
upon,  to  strike  one's  roots  down  into,  as  it  were. 

Especially  to  those  whose  soil  of  life  is  inclined 
to  be  a  little  clayey  and  heavy,  is  the  apple  a  win 
ter  necessity.  It  is  the  natural  antidote  of  most  of 
the  ills  the  flesh  is  heir  to.  Full  of  vegetable  acids 
and  aromatics,  qualities  which  act  as  refrigerants 
and  antiseptics,  what  an  enemy  it  is  to  jaundice, 
indigestion,  torpidity  of  liver,  etc. !  It  is  a  gentle 
spur  and  tonic  to  the  whole  biliary  system.  Then 
I  have  read  that  it  has  been  found  by  analysis  to 
contain  more  phosphorus  than  any  other  vegetable. 
This  makes  it  the  proper  food  of  the  scholar  and 
the  sedentary  man;  it  feeds  his  brain  and  it  stimu- 


114  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

lates  his  liver.  Neither  is  this  all.  Beside  its 
hygienic  properties,  the  apple  is  full  of  sugar  and 
mucilage,  which  make  it  highly  nutritious.  It  is 
said  "the  operators  of  Cornwall,  England,  consider 
ripe  apples  nearly  as  nourishing  as  bread,  and  far 
more  so  than  potatoes.  In  the  year  1801  —  which 
was  a  year  of  much  scarcity  —  apples,  instead  of 
being  converted  into  cider,  were  sold  to  the  poor, 
and  the  laborers  asserted  that  they  could  '  stand  their 
work '  on  baked  apples  without  meat ;  whereas  a 
potato  diet  required  either  meat  or  some  other  sub 
stantial  nutriment.  The  French  and  Germans  use 
apples  extensively;  so  do  the  inhabitants  of  all  Eu 
ropean  nations.  The  laborers  depend  upon  them  as 
an  article  of  food,  and  frequently  make  a  dinner  of 
sliced  apples  and  bread." 

Yet  the  English  apple  is  a  tame  and  insipid  affair, 
compared  with  the  intense,  sun-colored,  and  sun- 
steeped  fruit  our  orchards  yield.  The  English  have 
no  sweet  apple,  I  am  told,  the  saccharine  element 
apparently  being  less  abundant  in  vegetable  nature 
in  that  sour  and  chilly  climate  than  in  our  own. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  European  maple  yields 
no  sugar,  while  both  our  birch  and  hickory  have 
sweet  in  their  veins.  Perhaps  this  fact  accounts  for 
our  excessive  love  of  sweets,  which  may  be  said  to 
be  a  national  trait. 

The  Russian  apple  has  a  lovely  complexion, 
smooth  and  transparent,  but  the  Cossack  is  not  yet 
all  eliminated  from  it.  The  only  one  I  have  seen 
—  the  Duchess  of  Oldenburg  —  is  as  beautiful  as  a 


THE   APPLE  115 

Tartar  princess,  with  a  distracting  odor,  but  it  is 
the  least  bit  puckery  to  the  taste. 

The  best  thing  I  know  about  Chili  is,  not  its 
guano  beds,  but  this  fact  which  I  learn  from  Dar 
win's  "Voyage,"  namely,  that  the  apple  thrives  well 
there.  Darwin  saw  a  town  there  so  completely 
buried  in  a  wood  of  apple-trees,  that  its  streets  were 
merely  paths  in  an  orchard.  The  tree,  indeed, 
thrives  so  well,  that  large  branches  cut  off  in  the 
spring  and  planted  two  or  three  feet  deep  in  the 
ground  send  out  roots  and  develop  into  fine,  full- 
bearing  trees  by  the  third  year.  The  people  know 
the  value  of  the  apple,  too.  They  make  cider  and 
wine  of  it,  and  then  from  the  refuse  a  white  and 
finely  flavored  spirit;  then,  by  another  process,  a 
sweet  treacle  is  obtained,  called  honey.  The  chil 
dren  and  pigs  ate  little  or  no  other  food.  He  does 
not  add  that  the  people  are  healthy  and  temperate, 
but  I  have  no  doubt  they  are.  We  knew  the  apple 
had  many  virtues,  but  these  Chilians  have  really 
opened  a  deep  beneath  a  deep.  We  had  found  out 
the  cider  and  the  spirits,  but  who  guessed  the  wine 
and  the  honey,  except  it  were  the  bees  ?  There  is 
a  variety  in  our  orchards  called  the  winesap,  a 
doubly  liquid  name  that  suggests  what  might  be 
done  with  this  fruit. 

The  apple  is  the  commonest  and  yet  the  most 
varied  and  beautiful  of  fruits.  A  dish  of  them  is 
as  becoming  to  the  centre-table  in  winter  as  was  the 
vase  of  flowers  in  the  summer,  —  a  bouquet  of  spit- 
zenburgs  and  greenings  and  northern  spies.  A 


116  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

rose  when  it  blooms,  the  apple  is  a  rose  when  it 
ripens.  It  pleases  every  sense  to  which  it  can  be 
addressed,  the  touch,  the  smell,  the  sight,  the  taste; 
and  when  it  falls,  in  the  still  October  days,  it  pleases 
the  ear.  It  is  a  call  to  a  banquet,  it  is  a  signal 
that  the  feast  is  ready.  The  bough  would  fain  hold 
it,  but  it  can  now  assert  its  independence;  it  can 
now  live  a  life  of  its  own. 

Daily  the  stem  relaxes  its  hold,  till  finally  it  lets 
go  completely  and  down  comes  the  painted  sphere 
with  a  mellow  thump  to  the  earth,  toward  which  it 
has  been  nodding  so  long.  It  bounds  away  to  seek 
its  bed,  to  hide  under  a  leaf,  or  in  a  tuft  of  grass. 
It  will  now  take  time  to  meditate  and  ripen !  What 
delicious  thoughts  it  has  there  nestled  with  its  fel 
lows  under  the  fence,  turning  acid  into  sugar,  and 
sugar  into  wine! 

How  pleasing  to  the  touch!  I  love  to  stroke  its 
polished  rondure  with  my  hand,  to  carry  it  in  my 
pocket  on  my  tramp  over  the  winter  hills,  or  through 
the  early  spring  woods.  You  are  company,  you 
red-cheeked  spitz,  or  you  salmon-fleshed  greening! 
I  toy  with  you;  press  your  face  to  mine,  toss  you 
in  the  air,  roll  you  on  the  ground,  see  you  shine 
out  where  you  lie  amid  the  moss  and  dry  leaves  and 
sticks.  You  are  so  alive !  You  glow  like  a  ruddy 
flower.  You  look  so  animated  I  almost  expect  to 
see  you  move !  I  postpone  the  eating  of  you,  you 
are  so  beautiful!  How  compact;  how  exquisitely 
tinted!  Stained  by  the  sun  and  varnished  against 
the  rains.  An  independent  vegetable  existence, 


THE   APPLE  117 

alive  and  vascular  as  my  own  flesh ;  capable  of  being 
wounded,  bleeding,  wasting  away,  or  almost  repair 
ing  damages ! 

How  they  resist  the  cold!  holding  out  almost  as 
long  as  the  red  cheeks  of  the  boys  do.  A  frost  that 
destroys  the  potatoes  and  other  roots  only  makes 
the  apple  more  crisp  and  vigorous;  they  peep  out 
from  the  chance  November  snows  unscathed.  When 
I  see  the  fruit- vender  on  the  street  corner  stamping 
his  feet  and  beating  his  hands  to  keep  them  warm, 
and  his  naked  apples  lying  exposed  to  the  blasts,  I 
wonder  if  they  do  not  ache,  too,  to  clap  their  hands 
and  enliven  their  circulation.  But  they  can  stand 
it  nearly  as  long  as  the  vender  can. 

Noble  common  fruit,  best  friend  of  man  and  most 
loved  by  him,  following  him,  like  his  dog  or  his 
cow,  wherever  he  goes!  His  homestead  is  not 
planted  till  you  are  planted,  your  roots  intertwine 
with  his;  thriving  best  where  he  thrives  best,  lov 
ing  the  limestone  and  the  frost,  the  plow  and  the 
pruning-knife :  you  are  indeed  suggestive  of  hardy, 
cheerful  industry,  and  a  healthy  life  in  the  open  air. 
Temperate,  chaste  fruit!  you  mean  neither  luxury 
nor  sloth,  neither  satiety  nor  indolence,  neither 
enervating  heats  nor  the  frigid  zones.  Uncloying 
fruit,  —  fruit  whose  best  sauce  is  the  open  air,  whose 
finest  flavors  only  he  whose  taste  is  sharpened  by 
brisk  work  or  walking  knows;  winter  fruit,  when 
the  fire  of  life  burns  brightest;  fruit  always  a  little 
hyperborean,  leaning  toward  the  cold;  bracing,  sub- 
acid,  active  fruit !  I  think  you  must  come  from  the 


118  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

north,  you  are  so  frank  and  honest,  so  sturdy  and 
appetizing.  You  are  stocky  and  homely  like  the 
northern  races.  Your  quality  is  Saxon.  Surely 
the  fiery  and  impetuous  south  is  not  akin  to  thee. 
Not  spices  or  olives,  or  the  sumptuous  liquid  fruits, 
but  the  grass,  the  snow,  the  grains,  the  coolness,  is 
akin  to  thee.  I  think  if  I  could  subsist  on  you, 
or  the  like  of  you,  I  should  never  have  an  intem 
perate  or  ignoble  thought,  never  be  feverish  or 
despondent.  So  far  as  I  could  absorb  or  transmute 
your  quality,  I  should  be  cheerful,  continent,  equi 
table,  sweet-blooded,  long-lived,  and  should  shed 
warmth  and  contentment  around. 

Is  there  any  other  fruit  that  has  so  much  facial 
expression  as  the  apple  ?  What  boy  does  not  more 
than  half  believe  they  can  see  with  that  single  eye 
of  theirs  ?  Do  they  not  look  and  nod  to  him  from 
the  bough?  The  swaar  has  one  look,  the  rambo 
another,  the  spy  another.  The  youth  recognizes 
the  seek-no-further,  buried  beneath  a  dozen  other 
varieties,  the  moment  he  catches  a  glance  of  its  eye, 
or  the  bonny-cheeked  Newtown  pippin,  or  the  gentle 
but  sharp-nosed  gillyflower.  He  goes  to  the  great 
bin  in  the  cellar,  and  sinks  his  shafts  here  and  there 
in  the  garnered  wealth  of  the  orchards,  mining  for 
his  favorites,  sometimes  coming  plump  upon  them, 
sometimes  catching  a  glimpse  of  them  to  the  right 
or  left,  or  uncovering  them  as  keystones  in  an  arch 
made  up  of  many  varieties. 

In  the  dark  he  can  usually  tell  them  by  the  sense 
of  touch.  There  is  not  only  the  size  and  shape, 


THE   APPLE  119 

but  there  is  the  texture  and  polish.  Some  apples 
are  coarse-grained  and  some  are  fine;  some  are  thin- 
skinned  and  some  are  thick.  One  variety  is  quick 
and  vigorous  beneath  the  touch,  another  gentle  and 
yielding.  The  pinnock  has  a  thick  skin  with  a 
spongy  lining ;  a  bruise  in  it  becomes  like  a  piece  of 
cork.  The  tallow  apple  has  an  unctuous  feel,  as  its 
name  suggests.  It  sheds  water  like  a  duck.  What 
apple  is  that  with  a  fat  curved  stem  that  blends 
so  prettily  with  its  own  flesh,  —  the  wine  apple  ? 
Some  varieties  impress  me  as  masculine,  — weather- 
stained,  freckled,  lasting,  and  rugged;  others  are 
indeed  lady  apples,  fair,  delicate,  shining,  mild- 
flavored,  white-meated,  like  the  egg-drop  and  lady- 
finger.  The  practiced  hand  knows  each  kind  by  the 
touch. 

Do  .you  remember  the  apple  hole  in  the  garden  or 
back  of  the  house,  Ben  Bolt?  In  the  fall,  after  the 
bins  in  the  cellar  had  been  well  stocked,  we  exca 
vated  a  circular  pit  in  the  warm  mellow  earth,  and, 
covering  the  bottom  with  clean  rye  straw,  emptied 
in  basketful  after  basketful  of  hardy  choice  varieties, 
till  there  was  a  tent-shaped  mound  several  feet  high 
of  shining  variegated  fruit.  Then,  wrapping  it  about 
with  a  thick  layer  of  long  rye  straw,  and  tucking  it 
up  snug  and  warm,  the  mound  was  covered  with  a 
thin  coating  of  earth,  a  flat  stone  on  the  top  holding 
down  the  straw.  As  winter  set  in,  another  coating 
of  earth  was  put  upon  it,  with  perhaps  an  overcoat 
of  coarse  dry  stable  manure,  and  the  precious  pile 
was  left  in  silence  and  darkness  till  spring.  No 


120  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

marmot,  hibernating  under  ground  in  his  nest  of 
leaves  and  dry  grass,  more  cosy  and  warm.  No 
frost,  no  wet,  but  fragrant  privacy  and  quiet.  Then 
how  the  earth  tempers  and  flavors  the  apples !  It 
draws  out  all  the  acrid  unripe  qualities,  and  infuses 
into  them  a  subtle  refreshing  taste  of  the  soil.  Some 
varieties  perish,  but  the  ranker,  hardier  kinds,  like 
the  northern  spy,  the  greening,  or  the  black  apple, 
or  the  russet,  or  the  pinnock,  how  they  ripen  and 
grow  in  grace,  how  the  green  becomes  gold,  and  the 
bitter  becomes  sweet ! 

As  the  supply  in  the  bins  and  barrels  gets  low 
and  spring  approaches,  the  buried  treasures  in  the 
garden  are  remembered.  With  spade  and  axe  we  go 
out  and  penetrate  through  the  snow  and  frozen  earth 
till  the  inner  dressing  of  straw  is  laid  bare.  It  is 
not  quite  as  clear  and  bright  as  when  we  placed  it 
there  last  fall,  but  the  fruit  beneath,  which  the  hand 
soon  exposes,  is  just  as  bright  and  far  more  luscious. 
Then,  as  day  after  day  you  resort  to  the  hole,  and, 
removing  the  straw  and  earth  from  the  opening, 
thrust  your  arm  into  the  fragrant  pit,  you  have  a 
better  chance  than  ever  before  to  become  acquainted 
with  your  favorites  by  the  sense  of  touch.  How 
you  feel  for  them,  reaching  to  the  right  and  left! 
Now  you  have  got  a  Talman  sweet;  you  imagine 
you  can  feel  that  single  meridian  line  that  divides  it 
into  two  hemispheres.  Now  a  greening  fills  your 
hand;  you  feel  its  fine  quality  beneath  its  rough 
coat.  Now  you  have  hooked  a  swaar,  you  recognize 
its  full  face ;  now  a  Vandevere  or  a  King  rolls  down 


THE   APPLE  121 

from  the  apex  above  and  you  bag  it  at  once.  When 
you  were  a  schoolboy  you  stowed  these  away  in 
your  pockets,  and  ate  them  along  the  road  and  at 
recess,  and  again  at  noontime;  and  they,  in  a  mea 
sure,  corrected  the  effects  of  the  cake  and  pie  with 
which  your  indulgent  mother  filled  your  lunch- 
basket. 

The  boy  is  indeed  the  true  apple-eater,  and  is  not 
to  be  questioned  how  he  came  by  the  fruit  with 
which  his  pockets  are  filled.  It  belongs  to  him,  and 
he  may  steal  it  if  it  cannot  be  had  in  any  other  way. 
His  own  juicy  flesh  craves  the  juicy  flesh  of  the 
apple.  Sap  draws  sap.  His  fruit-eating  has  little 
reference  to  the  state  of  his  appetite.  Whether  he 
be  full  of  meat  or  empty  of  meat,  he  wants  the  apple 
just  the  same.  Before  meal  or  after  meal  it  never 
comes  amiss.  The  farm-boy  munches  apples  all  day 
long.  He  has  nests  of  them  in  the  haymow,  mel 
lowing,  to  which  he  makes  frequent  visits.  Some 
times  old  Brindle,  having  access  through  the  open 
door,  smells  them  out  and  makes  short  work  of 
them. 

In  some  countries  the  custom  remains  of  placing 
a  rosy  apple  in  the  hand  of  the  dead,  that  they  may 
find  it  when  they  enter  paradise.  In  northern  my 
thology  the  giants  eat  apples  to  keep  off  old  age. 

The  apple  is  indeed  the  fruit  of  youth.  As  we 
grow  old  we  crave  apples  less.  It  is  an  ominous 
sign.  When  you  are  ashamed  to  be  seen  eating 
them  on  the  street ;  when  you  can  carry  them  in  your 
pocket  and  your  hand  not  constantly  find  its  way  to 


122  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

them;  when  your  neighbor  has  apples  and  you 
have  none,  and  you  make  no  nocturnal  visits  to  his 
orchard;  when  your  lunch-basket  is  without  them, 
and  you  can  pass  a  winter's  night  by  the  fireside 
with  no  thought  of  the  fruit  at  your  elbow,  —  then 
be  assured  you  are  no  longer  a  boy,  either  in  heart 
or  in  years. 

The  genuine  apple-eater  comforts  himself  with  an 
apple  in  their  season,  as  others  with  a  pipe  or  cigar. 
When  he  has  nothing  else  to  do,  or  is  bored,  he  eats 
an  apple.  While  he  is  waiting  for  the  train  he 
eats  an  apple,  sometimes  several  of  them.  When 
he  takes  a  walk  he  arms  himself  with  apples.  His 
traveling  bag  is  full  of  apples.  He  offers  an  apple 
to  his  companion,  and  takes  one  himself.  They  are 
his  chief  solace  when  on  the  road.  He  sows  their 
seed  all  along  the  route.  He  tosses  the  core  from 
the  car  window  and  from  the  top  of  the  stage-coach. 
He  would,  in  time,  make  the  land  one  vast  orchard. 
He  dispenses  with  a  knife.  He  prefers  that  his 
teeth  shall  have  the  first  taste.  Then  he  knows  the 
best  flavor  is  immediately  beneath  the  skin,  and  that 
in  a  pared  apple  this  is  lost.  If  you  will  stew  the 
apple,  he  says,  instead  of  baking  it,  by  all  means 
leave  the  skin  on.  It  improves  the  color  and  vastly 
heightens  the  flavor  of  the  dish. 

The  apple  is  a  masculine  fruit;  hence  women  are 
poor  apple-eaters.  It  belongs  to  the  open  air,  and 
requires  an  open-air  taste  and  relish. 

I  instantly  sympathized  with  that  clergyman  I 
read  of,  who,  on  pulling  out  his  pocket-handkerchief 


THE  APPLE  123 

in  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  pulled  out  two  boun 
cing  apples  with  it  that  went  rolling  across  the  pul 
pit  floor  and  down  the  pulpit  stairs.  These  apples 
were,  no  doubt,  to  be  eaten  after  the  sermon,  on  his 
way  home,  or  to  his  next  appointment.  They  would 
take  the  taste  of  it  out  of  his  mouth.  Then,  would 
a  minister  be  apt  to  grow  tiresome  with  two  big 
apples  in  his  coat-tail  pockets?  Would  he  not  nat 
urally  hasten  along  to  "lastly"  and  the  big  apples? 
If  they  were  the  dominie  apples,  and  it  was  April 
or  May,  he  certainly  would. 

How  the  early  settlers  prized  the  apple !  When 
their  trees  broke  down  or  were  split  asunder  by  the 
storms,  the  neighbors  turned  out,  the  divided  tree 
was  put  together  again  and  fastened  with  iron  bolts. 
In  some  of  the  oldest  orchards  one  may  still  occa 
sionally  see  a  large  dilapidated  tree  with  the  rusty 
iron  bolt  yet  visible.  Poor,  sour  fruit,  too,  but 
sweet  in  those  early  pioneer  days.  My  grandfa 
ther,  who  was  one  of  these  heroes  of  the  stump,  used 
every  fall  to  make  a  journey  of  forty  miles  for  a  few 
apples,  which  he  brought  home  in  a  bag  on  horse 
back.  He  frequently  started  from  home  by  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  at  one  time  both 
himself  and  his  horse  were  much  frightened  by  the 
screaming  of  panthers  in  a  narrow  pass  in  the  moun 
tains  through  which  the  road  led. 

Emerson,  I  believe,  has  spoken  of  the  apple  as 
the  social  fruit  of  New  England.  Indeed,  what  a 
promoter  or  abettor  of  social  intercourse  among  our 
rural  population  the  apple  has  been,  the  company 


124  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

growing  more  merry  and  unrestrained  as  soon  as  the 
basket  of  apples  was  passed  round!  When  the 
cider  followed,  the  introduction  and  good  under 
standing  were  complete.  Then  those  rural  gatherings 
that  enlivened  the  autumn  in  the  country,  known 
as  "apple-cuts,"  now,  alas!  nearly  obsolete,  where 
so  many  things  were  cut  and  dried  besides  apples ! 
The  larger  and  more  loaded  the  orchard,  the  more 
frequently  the  invitations  went  round  and  the  higher 
the  social  and  convivial  spirit  ran.  Ours  is  emi 
nently  a  country  of  the  orchard.  Horace  Greeley 
said  he  had  seen  no  land  in  which  the  orchard 
formed  such  a  prominent  feature  in  the  rural  and 
agricultural  districts.  Nearly  every  farmhouse  in 
the  Eastern  and  Northern  States  has  its  setting  or 
its  background  of  apple-trees,  which  generally  date 
back  to  the  first  settlement  of  the  farm.  Indeed, 
the  orchard,  more  than  almost  any  other  thing,  tends 
to  soften  and  humanize  the  country,  and  give  the 
place  of  which  it  is  an  adjunct  a  settled,  domestic 
look.  The  apple-tree  takes  the  rawness  and  wild- 
ness  off  any  scene.  On  the  top  of  a  mountain,  or 
in  remote  pastures,  it  sheds  the  sentiment  of  home. 
It  never  loses  its  domestic  air,  or  lapses  into  a  wild 
state.  And  in  planting  a  homestead,  or  in  choosing 
a  building  site  for  the  new  house,  what  a  help  it  is 
to  have  a  few  old,  maternal  apple-trees  near  by,  — 
regular  old  grandmothers,  who  have  seen  trouble, 
who  have  been  sad  and  glad  through  so  many  win 
ters  and  summers,  who  have  blossomed  till  the  air 
about  them  is  sweeter  than  elsewhere,  and  borne 


THE   APPLE  125 

fruit  till  the  grass  beneath  them  has  become  thick  and 
soft  from  human  contact,  and  who  have  nourished 
robins  and  finches  in  their  branches  till  they  have  a 
tender,  brooding  look!  The  ground,  the  turf,  the 
atmosphere  of  an  old  orchard,  seem  several  stages 
nearer  to  man  than  that  of  the  adjoining  field,  as  if 
the  trees  had  given  back  to  the  soil  more  than  they 
had  taken  from  it;  as  if  they  had  tempered  the  ele 
ments,  and  attracted  all  the  genial  and  beneficent 
influences  in  the  landscape  around. 

An  apple  orchard  is  sure  to  bear  you  several 
crops  beside  the  apple.  There  is  the  crop  of  sweet 
and  tender  reminiscences,  dating  from  childhood 
and  spanning  the  seasons  from  May  to  October,  and 
making  the  orchard  a  sort  of  outlying  part  of  the 
household.  You  have  played  there  as  a  child, 
mused  there  as  a  youth  or  lover,  strolled  there  as 
a  thoughtful,  sad-eyed  man.  Your  father,  perhaps, 
planted  the  trees,  or  reared  them  from  the  seed,  and 
you  yourself  have  pruned  and  grafted  them,  and 
worked  among  them,  till  every  separate  tree  has  a 
peculiar  history  and  meaning  in  your  mind.  Then 
there  is  the  never-failing  crop  of  birds,  — robins, 
goldfinches,  kingbirds,  cedar-birds,  hairbirds,  ori 
oles,  starlings,  — all  nesting  and  breeding  in  its 
branches,  and  fitly  described  by  Wilson  Flagg  as 
"  Birds  of  the  Garden  and  Orchard. "  Whether  the 
pippin  and  sweet  bough  bear  or  not,  the  "  punctual 
birds  "  can  always  be  depended  on.  Indeed,  there 
are  few  better  places  to  study  ornithology  than  in 
the  orchard.  Besides  its  regular  occupants,  many  of 


126  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  birds  of  the  deeper  forest  find  occasion  to  visit 
it  during  the  season.  The  cuckoo  comes  for  the 
tent-caterpillar,  the  jay  for  frozen  apples,  the  ruffed 
grouse  for  buds,  the  crow  foraging  for  birds'  eggs, 
the  woodpecker  and  chickadees  for  their  food,  and 
the  high-hole  for  ants.  The  redbird  comes,  too,  if 
only  to  see  what  a  friendly  covert  its  branches  form ; 
and  the  wood  thrush  now  and  then  comes  out  of  the 
grove  near  by,  and  nests  alongside  of  its  cousin,  the 
robin.  The  smaller  hawks  know  that  this  is  a 
most  likely  spot  for  their  prey,  and  in  spring  the 
shy  northern  warblers  may  be  studied  as  they  pause 
to  feed  on  the  fine  insects  amid  its  branches.  The 
mice  love  to  dwell  here  also,  and  hither  come  from 
the  near  woods  the  squirrel  and  the  rabbit.  The 
latter  will  put  his  head  through  the  boy's  slipper- 
noose  any  time  for  a  taste  of  the  sweet  apple,  and 
the  red  squirrel  and  chipmunk  esteem  its  seeds  a 
great  rarity. 

All  the  domestic  animals  love  the  apple,  but  none 
so  much  so  as  the  cow.  The  taste  of  it  wakes  her 
up  as  few  other  things  do,  and  bars  and  fences  must 
be  well  looked  after.  No  need  to  assort  them  or 
pick  out  the  ripe  ones  for  her.  An  apple  is  an 
apple,  and  there  is  no  best  about  it.  I  heard  of  a 
quick-witted  old  cow  that  learned  to  shake  them 
down  from  the  tree.  While  rubbing  herself  she 
had  observed  that  an  apple  sometimes  fell.  This 
stimulated  her  to  rub  a  little  harder,  when  more 
apples  fell.  She  then  took  the  hint  and  rubbed  her 
shoulder  with  such  vigor  that  the  farmer  had  to 


THE   APPLE  127 

check  her,  and  keep  an  eye  on  her  to  save  his 
fruit. 

But  the  cow  is  the  friend  of  the  apple.  How 
many  trees  she  has  planted  about  the  farm,  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  and  in  remote  fields  and  pas 
tures  !  The  wild  apples,  celebrated  by  Thoreau,  are 
mostly  of  her  planting.  She  browses  them  down, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  are  hers,  and  why  should  she 
not? 

What  an  individuality  the  apple-tree  has,  each 
variety  being  nearly  as  marked  by  its  form  as  by  its 
fruit.  What  a  vigorous  grower,  for  instance,  is  the 
Eibston  pippin,  an  English  apple,  —  wide-branching 
like  the  oak;  its  large  ridgy  fruit,  in  late  fall  or 
early  winter,  is  one  of  my  favorites.  Or  the  thick 
and  more  pendent  top  of  the  bellflovver,  with  its 
equally  rich,  sprightly,  uncloying  fruit. 

Sweet  apples  are  perhaps  the  most  nutritious, 
and  when  baked  are  a  feast  of  themselves.  With  a 
tree  of  the  Jersey  sweet  or  of  the  Talman  sweet  in 
bearing,  no  man's  table  need  be  devoid  of  luxuries 
and  one  of  the  most  wholesome  of  all  desserts.  Or 
the  red  astrachan,  an  August  apple, — what  a  gap  may 
be  filled  in  the  culinary  department  of  a  household 
at  this  season  by  a  single  tree  of  this  fruit!  And 
what  a  feast  is  its  shining  crimson  coat  to  the  eye 
before  its  snow-white  flesh  has  reached  the  tongue ! 
But  the  apple  of  apples  for  the  household  is  the 
spitzenburg.  In  this  casket  Pomona  has  put  her 
highest  flavors.  It  can  stand  the  ordeal  of  cooking, 
and  still  remain  a  spitz.  I  recently  saw  a  barrel  of 


128  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

these  apples  from  the  orchard  of  a  fruit-grower  in 
the  northern  part  of  New  York,  who  has  devoted 
especial  attention  to  this  variety.  They  were  per 
fect  gems.  Not  large, —  that  had  not  been  the  aim, 
—  but  small,  fair,  uniform,  and  red  to  the  core. 
How  intense,  how  spicy  and  aromatic! 

But  all  the  excellences  of  the  apple  are  not  con 
fined  to  the  cultivated  fruit.  Occasionally  a  seed 
ling  springs  up  about  the  farm  that  produces  fruit 
of  rare  beauty  and  worth.  In  sections  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  apple,  like  a  certain  belt  along  the 
Hudson  River,  I  have  noticed  that  most  of  the  wild, 
unbidden  trees  bear  good,  edible  fruit.  In  cold  and 
ungenial  districts  the  seedlings  are  mostly  sour  and 
crabbed,  but  in  more  favorable  soils  they  are  oftener 
mild  and  sweet.  I  know  wild  apples  that  ripen  in 
August,  and  that  do  not  need,  if  it  could  be  had, 
Thoreau's  sauce  of  sharp,  November  air  to  be  eaten 
with.  At  the  foot  of  a  hill  near  me,  and  striking 
its  roots  deep  in  the  shale,  is  a  giant  specimen  of 
native  tree  that  bears  an  apple  that  has  about  the 
clearest,  waxiest,  most  transparent  complexion  I  ever 
saw.  It  is  of  good  size,  and  the  color  of  a  tea  rose. 
Its  quality  is  best  appreciated  in  the  kitchen.  I 
know  another  seedling  of  excellent  quality,  and  so 
remarkable  for  its  firmness  and  density  that  it  is 
known  on  the  farm  where  it  grows  as  the  "heavy 
apple. " 

I  have  alluded  to  Thoreau,  to  whom  all  lovers  of 
the  apple  and  its  tree  are  under  obligation.  His 
chapter  on  Wild  Apples  is  a  most  delicious  piece  of 


THE   APPLE  129 

writing.  It  has  a  "  tang  and  smack  "  like  the  fruit 
it  celebrates,  and  is  dashed  and  streaked  with  color 
in  the  same  manner.  It  has  the  hue  and  perfume 
of  the  crab,  and  the  richness  and  raciness  of  the 
pippin.  But  Thoreau  loved  other  apples  than  the 
wild  sorts,  and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  his  favor 
ites  could  not  be  eaten  indoors.  Late  in  Novem 
ber  he  found  a  blue-pearmain  tree  growing  within 
the  edge  of  a  swamp,  almost  as  good  as  wild.  "  You 
would  not  suppose,"  he  says,  "that  there  was  any 
fruit  left  there  on  the  first  survey,  but  you  must  look 
according  to  system.  Those  which  lie  exposed  are 
quite  brown  and  rotten  now,  or  perchance  a  few  still 
show  one  blooming  cheek  here  and  there  amid  the 
wet  leaves.  Nevertheless,  with  experienced  eyes  I 
explore  amid  the  bare  alders,  and  the  huckleberry 
bushes,  and  the  withered  sedge,  and  in  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks,  which  are  full  of  leaves,  and  pry  under 
the  fallen  and  decaying  ferns  which,  with  apple  and 
alder  leaves,  thickly  strew  the  ground.  For  I  know 
that  they  lie  concealed,  fallen  into  hollows  long 
since,  and  covered  up  by  the  leaves  of  the  tree  itself, 
—  a  proper  kind  of  packing.  From  these  lurking 
places,  anywhere  within  the  circumference  of  the 
tree,  I  draw  forth  the  fruit  all  wet  and  glossy, 
maybe  nibbled  by  rabbits  and  hollowed  out  by 
crickets,  and  perhaps  with  a  leaf  or  two  cemented 
to  it  (as  Curzon  an  old  manuscript  from  a  monas 
tery's  mouldy  cellar),  but  still  with  a  rich  bloom  on 
it,  and  at  least  as  ripe  and  well  kept,  if  not  better 
than  those  in  barrels,  more  crisp  and  lively  than 


130  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

they.  If  these  resources  fail  to  yield  anything, 
I  have  learned  to  look  between  the  bases  of  the 
suckers  which  spring  thickly  from  some  horizontal 
limb,  for  now  and  then  one  lodges  there,  or  in  the 
very  midst  of  an  alder-clump,  where  they  are  covered 
by  leaves,  safe  from  cows  which  may  have  smelled 
them  out.  If  I  am  sharp-set, —  for  I  do  not  refuse 
the  blue-pearmain, —  I  fill  my  pockets  on  each  side; 
and  as  I  retrace  my  steps  in  the  frosty  eve,  being 
perhaps  four  or  five  miles  from  home,  I  eat  one  first 
from  this  side,  and  then  from  that,  to  keep  my 
balance. " 


vm 

AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD 

I 
MELLOW  ENGLAND 

T  WILL  say  at  the  outset,  as  I  believe  some  one 
-*-  else  has  said  on  a  like  occasion,  that  in  this 
narrative  I  shall  probably  describe  myself  more  than 
the  objects  I  look  upon.  The  facts  and  particulars 
of  the  case  have  already  been  set  down  in  the  guide 
books  and  in  innumerable  books  of  travel.  I  shall 
only  attempt  to  give  an  account  of  the  pleasure  and 
satisfaction  I  had  in  coming  face  to  face  with  things 
in  the  mother  country,  seeing  them  as  I  did  with 
kindred  and  sympathizing  eyes. 

The  ocean  was  a  dread  fascination  to  me, —  a  world 
whose  dominion  I  had  never  entered;  but  I  proved 
to  be  such  a  wretched  sailor  that  I  am  obliged  to 
confess,  Hibernian  fashion,  that  the  happiest  mo 
ment  I  spent  upon  the  sea  was  when  I  set  my  foot 
upon  the  land. 

It  is  a  wide  and  fearful  gulf  that  separates  the 
two  worlds.  The  landsman  can  know  little  of  the 
wildness,  savageness,  and  mercilessness  of  nature  till 
he  has  been  upon  the  sea.  It  is  as  if  he  had  taken  a 


132  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

leap  off  into  the  interstellar  spaces.  In  voyaging  to 
Mars  or  Jupiter,  he  might  cross  such  a  desert, — 
might  confront  such  awful  purity  and  coldness.  An 
astronomic  solitariness  and  remoteness  encompass  the 
sea.  The  earth  and  all  remembrance  of  it  is  blotted 
out;  there  is  no  hint  of  it  anywhere.  This  is  not 
water,  this  cqld,  blue-black,  vitreous  liquid.  It  sug 
gests,  not  life,  but  death.  Indeed,  the  regions  of 
everlasting  ice  and  snow  are  not  more  cold  and  in 
human  than  is  the  sea. 

Almost  the  only  thing  about  my  first  sea  voyage 
that  I  remember  with  pleasure  is  the  circumstance 
of  the  little  birds  that,  during  the  first  few  days  out, 
took  refuge  on  the  steamer.  The  first  afternoon, 
just  as  we  were  losing  sight  of  land,  a  delicate  little 
wood-bird,  the  black  and  white  creeping  warbler,  — 
having  lost  its  reckoning  in  making  perhaps  its  first 
southern  voyage,  —  came  aboard.  It  was  much  fa 
tigued,  and  had  a  disheartened,  demoralized  look. 
After  an  hour  or  two  it  disappeared,  having,  I  fear, 
a  hard  pnll  to  reach  the  land  in  the  face  of  the  wind 
that  was  blowing,  if  indeed  it  reached  it  at  all. 

The  next  day,  just  at  night,  I  observed  a  small 
hawk  sailing  about  conveniently  near  the  vessel, 
but  with  a  very  lofty,  independent  mien,  as  if  he 
had  just  happened  that  way  on  his  travels,  and  was 
only  lingering  to  take  a  good  view  of  us.  It  was 
amusing  to  observe  his  coolness  and  haughty  uncon 
cern  in  that  sad  plight  he  was  in;  by  nothing  in  his 
manner  betraying  that  he  was  several  hundred  miles 
at  sea,  and  did  not  know  how  he  was  going  to  get 


AN   OCTOBEK  ABROAD  133 

back  to  land.  But  presently  I  noticed  he  found  it 
not  inconsistent  with  his  dignity  to  alight  on  the 
rigging  under  friendly  cover  of  the  tops' 1,  where  I 
saw  his  feathers  rudely  ruffled  by  the  wind,  till 
darkness  set  in.  If  the  sailors  did  not  disturb  him 
during  the  night,  he  certainly  needed  all  his  fortitude 
in  the  morning  to  put  a  cheerful  face  on  his  situa 
tion. 

The  third  day,  when  we  were  perhaps  off  Nova 
Scotia  or  Newfoundland,  the  American  pipit  or  tit 
lark,  from  the  far  north,  a  brown  bird  about  the  size 
of  a  sparrow,  dropped  upon  the  deck  of  the  ship,  so 
nearly  exhausted  that  one  of  the  sailors  was  on  the 
point  of  covering  it  with  his  hat.  It  stayed  about 
the  vessel  nearly  all  day,  flitting  from  point  to 
point,  or  hopping  along  a  few  feet  in  front  of  the 
promenaders,  and  prying  into  every  crack  and  crev 
ice  for  food.  Time  after  time  I  saw  it  start  off  with 
a  reassuring  chirp,  as  if  determined  to  seek  the  land ; 
but  before  it  had  got  many  rods  from  the  ship  its 
heart  would  seem  to  fail  it,  and,  after  circling  about 
for  a  few  moments,  back  it  would  come,  more  dis 
couraged  than  ever. 

These  little  waifs  from  the  shore !  I  gazed  upon 
them  with  a  strange,  sad  interest.  They  were 
friends  in  distress ;  but  the  sea-birds,  skimming  along 
indifferent  to  us,  or  darting  in  and  out  among  those 
watery  hills,  I  seemed  to  look  upon  as  my  natural 
enemies.  They  were  the  nurslings  and  favorites  of 
the  sea,  and  I  had  no  sympathy  with  them. 

No  doubt  the   number   of   our   land-birds   that 


134  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

actually  perish  in  the  sea  during  their  autumn  mi 
gration,  being  carried  far  out  of  their  course  by 
the  prevailing  Avesterly  winds  of  this  season,  is  very 
great.  Occasionally  one  makes  the  passage  to  Great 
Britain  by  following  the  ships,  and  finding  them  at 
convenient  distances  along  the  route;  and  I  have 
been  told  that  over  fifty  different  species  of  our  more 
common  birds,  such  as  robins,  starlings,  grosbeaks, 
thrushes,  etc.,  have  been  found  in  Ireland,  having, 
of  course,  crossed  in  this  way.  What  numbers  of 
these  little  navigators  of  the  air  are  misled  and 
wrecked,  during  those  dark  and  stormy  nights,  on 
the  lighthouses  alone  that  line  the  Atlantic  coast? 
Is  it  Celia  Thaxter  who  tells  of  having  picked  xip 
her  apron  full  of  sparrows,  warblers,  flycatchers,  etc. , 
at  the  foot  of  the  lighthouse  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
one  morning  after  a  storm,  the  ground  being  still 
strewn  with  birds  of  all  kinds  that  had  dashed  them 
selves  against  the  beacon,  bewildered  and  fascinated 
by  its  tremendous  light? 

If  a  land- bird  perishes  at  sea,  a  sea-bird  is  equally 
cast  away  upon  the  land;  and  I  have  known  the 
sooty  tern,  with  its  almost  omnipotent  wing,  to  fall 
down,  utterly  famished  and  exhausted,  two  hundred 
miles  from  salt  water. 

But  my  interest  in  these  things  did  not  last  be 
yond  the  third  day.  About  this  time  we  entered 
what  the  sailors  call  the  "devil's  hole,"  and  a  very 
respectably-sized  hole  it  is,  extending  from  the  banks 
of  Newfoundland  to  Ireland,  and  in  all  seasons  and 
weathers  it  seems  to  be  well  stirred  up. 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  135 

Amidst  the  tossing  and  rolling,  the  groaning  of 
penitent  travelers,  and  the  laboring  of  the  vessel  as 
she  climbed  those  dark  unstable  mountains,  my 
mind  reverted  feebly  to  Huxley's  statement,  that  the 
bottom  of  this  sea,  for  over  a  thousand  miles,  pre 
sents  to  the  eye  of  science  a  vast  chalk  plain,  over 
which  one  might  drive  as  over  a  floor,  and  I  tried 
to  solace  myself  by  dwelling  upon  the  spectacle  of  a 
solitary  traveler  whipping  up  his  steed  across  it. 
The  imaginary  rattle  of  his  wagon  was  like  the 
sound  of  lutes  and  harps,  and  I  would  rather  have 
clung  to  his  axletree  than  been  rocked  in  the  best 
berth  in  the  ship. 


On  the  tenth  day,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  we  sighted  Ireland.  The  ship  came  up  from 
behind  the  horizon,  where  for  so  many  days  she  had 
been  buffeting  with  the  winds  and  the  waves,  but 
had  never  lost  the  clew,  bearing  straight  as  an  arrow 
for  the  mark.  I  think,  if  she  had  been  aimed  at  a 
fair-sized  artillery  target,  she  would  have  crossed 
the  ocean  and  struck  the  bull's-eye. 

In  Ireland,  instead  of  an  emerald  isle  rising  out 
of  the  sea,  I  beheld  a  succession  of  cold,  purplish 
mountains,  stretching  along  the  northeastern  horizon, 
but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  no  tints  of  bloom  or  ver 
dure  were  ever  half  so  welcome  to  me  as  were  those 
dark,  heather-clad  ranges.  It  is  a  feeling  which  a 
man  can  have  but  once  in  his  life,  when  he  first  sets 
eyes  upon  a  foreign  land;  and  in  my  case,  to  this 


136  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

feeling  was  added  the  delightful  thought  that  the 
"devil's  hole"  would  soon  be  cleared  and  my  long 
fast  over. 

Presently,  after  the  darkness  had  set  in,  signal 
rockets  were  let  off  from  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
writing  their  burning  messages  upon  the  night ;  and 
when  answering  rockets  rose  slowly  up  far  ahead,  I 
suppose  we  all  felt  that  the  voyage  was  essentially 
done,  and  no  doubt  a  message  flashed  back  under 
the  ocean  that  the  Scotia  had  arrived. 

The  sight  of  the  land  had  been  such  medicine  to 
me  that  I  could  now  hold  up  my  head  and  walk 
about,  and  so  went  down  for  the  first  time  and  took 
a  look  at  the  engines,  —  those  twin  monsters  that 
had  not  stopped  once,  or  apparently  varied  their 
stroke  at  all,  since  leaving  Sandy  Hook;  I  felt  like 
patting  their  enormous  cranks  and  shafts  with  my 
hand, —  then  at  the  coal  bunks,  vast  cavernous  re 
cesses  in  the  belly  of  the  ship,  like  the  chambers  of 
the  original  mine  in  the  mountains,  and  saw  the 
men  and  firemen  at  work  in  a  sort  of  purgatory  of 
heat  and  dust.  When  it  is  remembered  that  one  of 
these  ocean  steamers  consumes  about  one  hundred 
tons  of  coal  per  day,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  what  a 
burden  the  coal  for  a  voyage  alone  must  be,  and  one 
is  not  at  all  disposed  to  laugh  at  Dr.  Lardner,  who 
proved  so  convincingly  that  no  steamship  could  ever 
cross  the  ocean,  because  it  could  not  carry  coal  enough 
to  enable  it  to  make  the  passage. 

On  the  morrow,  a  calm  lustrous  day,  we  steamed 
at  our  leisure  up  the  Channel  and  across  the  Irish 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  137 

Sea,  the  coast  of  Wales,  and  her  groups  of  lofty 
mountains,  in  full  view  nearly  all  day.  The  moun 
tains  were  in  profile  like  the  Catskills  viewed  from 
the  Hudson  below,  only  it  was  evident  there  were 
no  trees  or  shrubbery  upon  them,  and  their  summits, 
on  this  last  day  of  September,  were  white  with  the 
snow. 

ASHORE 

The  first  day  or  half  day  ashore  is,  of  course,  the 
most  novel  and  exciting;  but  who,  as  Mr.  Higgin- 
son  says,  can  describe  his  sensations  and  emotions 
this  first  half  day  ?  It  is  a  page  of  travel  that  has 
not  yet  been  written.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem, 
one  generally  comes  out  of  pickle  much  fresher  than 
he  went  in.  The  sea  has  given  him  an  enormous 
appetite  for  the  land.  Every  one  of  his  senses  is 
like  a  hungry  wolf  clamorous  to  be  fed.  For  my 
part,  I  had  suddenly  emerged  from  a  condition  bor 
dering  on  that  of  the  hibernating  animals  —  a  con 
dition  in  which  I  had  neither  eaten,  nor  slept,  nor 
thought,  nor  moved,  when  I  could  help  it  —  into 
not  only  a  full,  but  a  keen  and  joyous,  possession  of 
my  health  and  faculties.  It  was  almost  a  metamor 
phosis.  I  was  no  longer  the  clod  I  had  been,  but  a 
bird  exulting  in  the  earth  and  air,  and  in  the  liberty 
of  motion.  Then  to  remember  it  was  a  new  earth 
and  a  new  sky  that  I  was  beholding, —  that  it  was 
England,  the  old  mother  at  last,  no  longer  a  faith 
or  a  fable,  but  an  actual  fact  there  before  my  eyes 
and  under  my  feet,  —  why  should  I  not  exult  ?  Go 
to!  I  will  be  indulged.  These  trees,  those  fields, 


138  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

that  bird  darting  along  the  hedge-rows,  those  men 
and  hoys  picking  blackberries  in  October,  those  Eng 
lish  flowers  by  the  roadside  (stop  the  carriage  while 
I  leap  out  and  pluck  them),  the  homely,  domestic 
looks  of  things,  those  houses,  those  queer  vehicles, 
those  thick-coated  horses,  those  big-footed,  coarsely- 
clad,  clear-skinned  men  and  women,  this  massive, 
homely,  compact  architecture, —  let  me  have  a  good 
look,  for  this  is  my  first  hour  in  England,  and  I  am 
drunk  with  the  joy  of  seeing!  This  house-fly  even, 
let  me  inspect  it ; l  and  that  swallow  skimming  along 
so  familiarly, —  is  he  the  same  I  saw  trying  to  cling 
to  the  sails  of  the  vessel  the  third  day  out?  or  is 
the  swallow  the  swallow  the  world  over  ?  This  grass 
I  certainly  have  seen  before,  and  this  red  and  white 
clover,  but  this  daisy  and  dandelion  are  not  the 
same;  and  I  have  come  three  thousand  miles  to  see 
the  mullein  cultivated  in  a  garden,  and  christened 
the  velvet  plant. 

As  we  sped  through  the  land,  the  heart  of  Eng 
land,  toward  London,  I  thought  my  eyes  would 
never  get  their  fill  of  the  landscape,  and  that  I 
would  lose  them  out  of  my  head  by  their  eagerness 
to  catch  every  object  as  we  rushed  along!  How 
they  reveled,  how  they  followed  the  birds  and  the 
game,  how  they  glanced  ahead  on  the  track  —  that 
marvelous  track !  —  or  shot  off  over  the  fields  and 
downs,  finding  their  delight  in  the  streams,  thft 
roads,  the  bridges,  the  splendid  breeds  of  cattle  and 

1  The  English  house-fly  actually  seemed  coarser  and  more 
hairy  than  ours.' 


AN  OCTOBER   ABEOAD  139 

sheep  in  the  fields,  the  superb  husbandry,  the  rich 
mellow  soil,  the  drainage,  the  hedges, —  in  the  in- 
conspicuousness  of  any  given  feature,  and  the  mel 
low  tone  and  homely  sincerity  of  all;  now  dwelling 
fondly  upon  the  groups  of  neatly  modeled  stacks, 
then  upon  the  field  occupations,  the  gathering  of 
turnips  and  cabbages,  or  the  digging  of  potatoes,  — 
how  I  longed  to  turn  up  the  historic  soil,  into  which 
had  passed  the  sweat  and  virtue  of  so  many  genera 
tions,  with  my  own  spade,  —  then  upon  the  quaint, 
old,  thatched  houses,  or  the  cluster  of  tiled  roofs, 
then  catching  at  a  church  spire  across  a  meadow 
(and  it  is  all  meadow),  or  at  the  remains  of  tower  or 
wall  overrun  with  ivy. 

Here,  something  almost  human  looks  out  at  you 
from  the  landscape;  Nature  here  has  been  so  long 
under  the  dominion  of  man,  has  been  taken  up  and 
laid  down  by  him  so  many  times,  worked  over  and 
over  with  his  hands,  fed  and  fattened  by  his  toil 
and  industry,  and,  on  the  whole,  has  proved  herself 
so  willing  and  tractable,  that  she  has  taken  on  some 
thing  of  his  image,  and  seems  to  radiate  his  pres 
ence.  She  is  completely  domesticated,  and  no  doubt 
loves  the  titivation  of  the  harrow  and  plow.  The 
fields  look  half  conscious;  and  if  ever  the  cattle 
have  "great  and  tranquil  thoughts,"  as  Emerson 
suggests  they  do,  it  must  be  when  lying  upon  these 
lawns  and  meadows.  I  noticed  that  the  trees,  the 
oaks  and  elms,  looked  like  fruit-trees,  or  as  if  they 
had  felt  the  humanizing  influences  of  so  many  gen 
erations  of  men,  and  were  betaking  themselves  from 


140  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  woods  to  the  orchard.  The  game  is  more  than 
half  tame,  and  one  could  easily  understand  that  it 
had  a  keeper. 

But  the  look  of  those  fields  and  parks  went 
straight  to  my  heart.  It  is  not  merely  that  they 
were  so  smooth  and  cultivated,  but  that  they  were 
so  benign  and  maternal,  so  redolent  of  cattle  and 
sheep  and  of  patient,  homely  farm  labor.  One  gets 
only  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  such  in  this  coun 
try.  I  see  occasionally  about  our  farms  a  patch  of 
an  acre  or  half  acre  upon  which  has  settled  this  at 
mosphere  of  ripe  and  loving  husbandry;  a  choice 
bit  of  meadow  about  the  barn  or  orchard,  or  near 
the  house,  which  has  had  some  special  fattening, 
perhaps  been  the  site  of  some  former  garden,  or  barn, 
or  homestead,  or  which  has  had  the  wash  of  some 
building,  where  the  feet  of  children  have  played  for 
generations,  and  the  flocks  and  herds  have  been  fed 
in  winter,  and  where  they  love  to  lie  and  ruminate 
at  night,  —  a  piece  of  sward  thick  and  smooth,  and 
full  of  warmth  and  nutriment,  where  the  grass  is 
greenest  and  freshest  in  spring,  and  the  hay  finest 
and  thickest  in  summer. 

This  is  the  character  of  the  whole  of  England  that 
I  saw.  I  had  been  told  I  should  see  a  garden,  but 
I  did  not  know  before  to  what  an  extent  the  earth 
could  become  a  living  repository  of  the  virtues  of  so 
many  generations  of  gardeners.  The  tendency  to 
run  to  weeds  and  wild  growths  seems  to  have  been 
utterly  eradicated  from  the  soil;  and  if  anything 
were  to  spring  up  spontaneously,  I  think  it  would 
be  cabbage  and  turnips,  or  grass  and  grain. 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  141 

And  yet,  to  American  eyes,  the  country  seems 
quite  uninhabited,  there  are  so  few  dwellings  and 
so  few  people.  Such  a  landscape  at  home  would  be 
dotted  all  over  with  thrifty  farmhouses,  each  with 
its  group  of  painted  outbuildings,  and  along  every 
road  and  highway  would  be  seen  the  well-to-do  turn 
outs  of  the  independent  freeholders.  But  in  Eng 
land  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  people,  the  farmers, 
are  so  humble  and  inconspicuous  and  are  really  so 
far  apart,  and  the  halls  and  the  country-seats  of  the 
aristocracy  are  so  hidden  in  the  midst  of  vast  estates, 
that  the  landscape  seems  almost  deserted,  and  it  is 
not  till  you  see  the  towns  and  great  cities  that  you 
can  understand  where  so  vast  a  population  keeps 
itself. 

Another  thing  that  would  be  quite  sure  to  strike 
my  eye  on  this  my  first  ride  across  British  soil,  and 
on  all  subsequent  rides,  was  the  enormous  number 
of  birds  and  fowls  of  various  kinds  that  swarmed  in 
the  air  or  covered  the  ground.  It  was  truly  amaz 
ing.  It  seemed  as  if  the  feathered  life  of  a  whole 
continent  must  have  been  concentrated  on  this  island. 
Indeed,  I  doubt  if  a  sweeping  together  of  all  the 
birds  of  the  United  States  into  any  two  of  the 
largest  States  would  people  the  earth  and  air  more 
fully.  There  appeared  to  be  a  plover,  a  crow,  a 
rook,  a  blackbird,  and  a  sparrow  to  every  square 
yard  of  ground.  They  know  the  value  of  birds  in 
Britain, —  that  they  are  the  friends,  not  the  enemies, 
of  the  farmer.  It  must  be  the  paradise  of  crows 
and  rooks.  It  did  me  good  to  see  them  so  much  at 


142  WINTER  SUXSHDfE 

home  about  the  fields  and  even  in  the  towns.  I  was 
glad  also  to  see  that  the  British  crow  was  not  a 
stranger  to  me,  and  that  he  differed  from  his  bro 
ther  on  the  American  side  of  the  Atlantic  only  in 
being  less  alert  and  cautious,  haying  less  use  for 
these  qualities. 

Xow  and  then  the  train  would  start  up  some  more 
tempting  game.  A  brace  or  two  of  partridges  or  a 
covey  of  quails  would  settle  down  in  the  stubble,  or 
a  cock  pheasant  drop  head  and  tail  and  slide  into 
the  copse.  Babbits  also  would  scamper  back  from 
the  borders  of  the  fields  into  the  thickets  or  peep 
slyly  out,  making  my  sportsman's  fingers  tingle. 

I  have  no  doubt  I  should  be  a  notorious  poacher 
in  England.  How  could  an  American  see  so  much 
game  and  not  wish  to  exterminate  it  entirely  as  he 
does  at  home  ?  But  sporting  is  an  expensive  luxury 
here.  In  the  first  place  a  man  pays  a  heavy  tax  on 
his  gun,  nearly  or  quite  half  its  value;  then  he  has 
to  have  a  license  to  hunt,  for  which  he  pays  smartly; 
then  permission  from  the  owner  of  the  land  upon 
which  he  wishes  to  hunt,  so  that  the  game  is  hedged 
about  by  a  triple  safeguard. 

An  American,  also,  will  be  at  once  struck  with 
the  look  of  greater  substantiality  and  completeness 
in  everything  he  sees  here.  Xo  temporizing,  no 
makeshifts,  no  evidence  of  hurry,  or  failure,  or 
contract  work;  no  wood  and  little  paint,  but  plenty 
of  iron  and  brick  and  stone.  This  people  have 
taken  plenty  of  time,  and  have  built  broad  and 
deep,  and  placed  the  cap-stone  on.  All  this  I  had 


AX   OCTOBER  ABBOAD  143 

been  told,  bat  it  pleased  ine  so  in  the  seeing  that  I 
mart  tell  it  again.  It  is  worth  a  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic  to  see  the  bridges  alone.  1  believe  I  had 
seen  litde  other  than  wooden  bridges  before,  and  in 
England  I  saw  not  one  such,  bat  everywhere  solid 
arches  of  masonry,  that  were  refreshing  and  reas 
suring  to  behold.  Even  the  lanes  and  byways 
about  the  farm,  I  noticed,  crossed  the  little  creeks 
with  a  span  upon  which  an  elephant  would  not  hesi 
tate  to  tread,  or  artillery  trains  to  pass.  There  is  no 
form  so  pleasing  to  look  upon  as  the  arch,  or  that 
•Kmlii  so  much  food  and  suggestion  to  the  mind. 
ft  seems  to  stimulate  die  volition,  the  will-power, 
and  for  my  part  I  cannot  look  upon  a  noble  span 
without  a  feeling  of  envy,  for  I  know  the  hearts 
of  heroes  are  thus  keyed  and  fortified.  The  arch  is 
the  symbol  of  strength  and  activity,  and  of  iidifmlB 
In  Europe  I  took  a  new  lease  of  this  feeling,  this 
partiality  for  the  span,  and  had  daily  opportunities 
to  indulge  and  confirm  it.  In  London  I  had  im 
mense  satisfaction  in  observing  the  bridges  there,  and 
in  walking  over  them,  firm  as  the  geological  strata, 
and  as  enduring.  London  Bridge,  Waterloo  Bridge, 
Blackfriars,  etc.,  clearing  the  river  in  a  few  gigantic 
leaps,  like  things  of  life  and  motion,  —  to  pass  over 
one  of  these  trMgr-,  or  to  sail  under  it,  awakens 
the  emotion  of  the  sublime.  I  think  the  moral  value 
of  such  a  bridge  as  the  Waterloo  must  be  inesti 
mable.  It  seems  to  me  the  British  Empire  itself  is 
stronger  for  such  a  bridge,  and  that  all  public  and 
private  virtues  are  stronger.  In  Paris,  too,  those 


144  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

superb  monuments  over  the  Seine,  —  I  think  they 
alone  ought  to  inspire  the  citizens  with  a  love  of 
permanence,  and  help  hold  them  to  stricter  notions 
of  law  and  dependence.  No  doubt  kings  and  tyrants 
know  the  value  of  these  things,  and  as  yet  they  cer 
tainly  have  the  monopoly  of  them. 


I  am  too  good  a  countryman  to  feel  much  at  home 
in  cities,  and  usually  value  them  only  as  conven 
iences,  but  for  London  I  conceived  quite  an  affecc 
tion;  perhaps  because  it  is  so  much  like  a  natural 
formation  itself,  and  strikes  less  loudly,  or  perhaps 
sharply,  upon  the  senses  than  our  great  cities  do. 
It  is  a  forest  of  brick  and  stone  of  the  most  stupen 
dous  dimensions,  and  one  traverses  it  in  the  same 
adventurous  kind  of  way  that  he  does  woods  and 
mountains.  The  maze  and  tangle  of  streets  is  some 
thing  fearful,  and  any  generalization  of  them  a  step 
not  to  be  hastily  taken.  My  experience  heretofore 
had  been  that  cities  generally  were  fractions  that 
could  be  greatly  reduced,  but  London  I  found  I 
could  not  simplify,  and  every  morning  for  weeks, 
when  I  came  out  of  my  hotel,  it  was  a  question 
whether  my  course  lay  in  this  direction  or  in 
squarely  the  opposite.  It  has  no  unit  of  structure, 
but  is  a  vast  aggregation  of  streets  and  houses,  or  in 
fact  of  towns  and  cities,  which  have  to  be  mastered 
in  detail.  I  tried  the  third  or  fourth  day  to  get  a 
bird's-eye  view  from  the  top  of  St.  Paul's,  but  saw 
through  the  rifts  in  the  smoke  only  a  waste,  — 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  145 

literally  a  waste  of  red  tiles  and  chimney  pots.  The 
confusion  and  desolation  were  complete. 

But  I  finally  mastered  the  city,  in  a  measure,  by 
the  aid  of  a  shilling  map,  which  I  carried  with  me 
wherever  I  went,  and  upon  which  when  I  was  lost 
I  would  hunt  myself  up,  thus  making  in  the  end 
a  very  suggestive  and  entertaining  map.  Indeed, 
every  inch  of  this  piece  of  colored  paper  is  alive  to 
me.  If  I  did  not  make  the  map  itself,  I  at  least 
verified  it,  which  is  nearly  as  good,  and  the  verifi 
cation,  on  street  corner  by  day  and  under  lamp  or 
by  shop  window  at  night,  was  often  a  matter  of  so 
much  concern  that  I  doubt  if  the  original  surveyor 
himself  put  more  heart  into  certain  parts  of  his  work 
than  I  did  in  the  proof  of  them. 

London  has  less  metropolitan  splendor  than  New 
York,  and  less  of  the  full-blown  pride  of  the  shop 
man.  Its  stores  are  not  nearly  so  big,  and  it  has 
no  signboards  that  contain  over  one  thousand  feet  of 
lumber;  neither  did  I  see  any  names  painted  on  the 
gable  ends  of  the  buildings  that  the  man  in  the  moon 
could  read  without  his  opera-glass.  I  went  out  one 
day  to  look  up  one  of  the  great  publishing  houses, 
and  passed  it  and  repassed  it  several  times  trying  to 
find  the  sign.  Finally,  having  made  sure  of  the 
building,  I  found  the  name  of  the  firm  cut  into  the 
door  jamb. 

London  seems  to  have  been  built  and  peopled  by 
countrymen,  who  have  preserved  all  the  rural  rem 
iniscences  possible.  All  its  great  streets  or  avenues 
are  called  roads,  as  King's  Koad,  City  Road,  Edge- 


146  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

ware  Road,  Tottenham  Court  Road,  etc.,  with  in 
numerable  lesser  roads.  Then  there  are  lanes  and 
walks,  and  such  rural  names  among  the  streets  as 
Long  Acre,  Snowhill,  Poultry,  Bush-lane,  Hill-road, 
Hounsditch,  etc.,  and  not  one  grand  street  or  im 
perial  avenue. 

My  visit  fell  at  a  most  favorable  juncture  as  to 
weather,  there  being  but  few  rainy  days  and  but 
little  fog.  I  had  imagined  that  they  had  barely 
enough  fair  weather  in  London,  at  any  season,  to 
keep  alive  the  tradition  of  sunshine  and  of  blue  sky, 
but  the  October  days  I  spent  there  were  not  so  very 
far  behind  what  we  have  at  home  at  this  season. 
London  often  puts  on  a  nightcap  of  smoke  and  fog, 
which  it  pulls  down  over  its  ears  pretty  close  at 
times;  and  the  sun  has  a  habit  of  lying  abed  very 
late  in  the  morning,  which  all  the  people  imitate; 
but  I  remember  some  very  pleasant  weather  there, 
and  some  bright  moonlight  nights. 

I  saw  but  one  full-blown  characteristic  London 
fog.  I  was  in  the  National  Gallery  one  day,  trying 
to  make  up  my  mind  about  Turner,  when  this  chim 
ney-pot  meteor  came  down.  It  was  like  a  great 
yellow  dog  taking  possession  of  the  world.  The 
light  faded  from  the  room,  the  pictures  ran  together 
in  confused  masses  of  shadow  on  the  walls,  and  in 
the  street  only  a  dim  yellowish  twilight  prevailed, 
through  which  faintly  twinkled  the  lights  in  the 
shop  windows.  Vehicles  came  slowly  out  of  the 
dirty  obscurity  on  one  side  and  plunged  into  it  on 
the  other.  Waterloo  Bridge  gave  one  or  two  leaps 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  147 

and  disappeared,  and  the  Nelson  Column  in  Tra 
falgar  Square  was  obliterated  for  half  its  length. 
Travel  was  impeded,  boats  stopped  on  the  river, 
trains  stood  still  on  the  track,  and  for  an  hour  and  a 
half  London  lay  buried  beneath  this  sickening  erup 
tion.  I  say  eruption,  because  a  London  fog  is  only 
a  London  smoke  tempered  by  a  moist  atmosphere. 
It  is  called  "fog"  by  courtesy,  but  lampblack  is  its 
chief  ingredient.  It  is  not  wet  like  our  fogs,  but 
quite  dry,  and  makes  the  eyes  smart  and  the  nose 
tingle.  Whenever  the  sun  can  be  seen  through  it, 
his  face  is  red  and  dirty ;  seen  through  a  bona  fide 
fog,  his  face  is  clean  and  white.  English  coal  —  or 
"coals"  as  they  say  here  —  in  burning  gives  out 
an  enormous  quantity  of  thick,  yellowish  smoke, 
which  is  at  no  time  absorbed  or  dissipated  as  it 
would  be  in  our  hard,  dry  atmosphere,  and  which 
at  certain  times  is  not  absorbed  at  all,  but  falls  down 
swollen  and  augmented  by  the  prevailing  moisture. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  whole  island  is  more  or  less 
impregnated  with  smoke,  even  on  the  fairest  days, 
and  it  becomes  more  and  more  dense  as  you  approach 
the  great  towns.  Yet  this  compound  of  smut,  fog, 
and  common  air  is  an  elixir  of  youth;  and  this  is 
one  of  the  surprises  of  London,  to  see  amid  so  much 
soot  and  dinginess  such  fresh,  blooming  complexions, 
and  in  general  such  a  fine  physical  tone  and  full- 
bloodedness  among  the  people,  —  such  as  one  has 
come  to  associate  only  with  the  best  air  and  the 
purest,  wholesomest  country  influences.  What  the 
secret  of  it  may  be,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know,  unless 


148  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

it  is  that  the  moist  atmosphere  does  not  dry  up  the 
blood  as  our  air  does,  and  that  the  carbon  and  creo 
sote  have  some  rare  antiseptic  and  preservative  quali 
ties,  as  doubtless  they  have,  that  are  efficacious  in 
the  human  physiology.  It  is  no  doubt  true,  also, 
that  the  people  do  not  tan  in  this  climate,  as  in 
ours,  and  that  the  delicate  flesh  tints  show  more  on 
that  account. 

I  speak  thus  of  these  things  with  reference  to  our 
standards  at  home,  because  I  found  that  these  stand 
ards  were  ever  present  in  my  mind,  and  that  I  was 
unconsciously  applying  them  to  whatever  I  saw  and 
wherever  I  went,  and  often,  as  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  show,  to  their  discredit. 

Climate  is  a  great  matter,  and  no  doubt  many  of 
the  differences  between  the  English  stock  at  home 
and  its  offshoot  in  our  country  are  traceable  to  this 
source.  Our  climate  is  more  heady  and  less  sto 
machic  than  the  English;  sharpens  the  wit,  but 
dries  up  the  fluids  and  viscera;  favors  an  irregular, 
nervous  energy,  but  exhausts  the  animal  spirits.  It 
is,  perhaps,  on  this  account  that  I  have  felt  since 
my  return  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  a  dyspep 
tic  here  than  in  Great  Britain.  One's  appetite  is 
keener  and  more  ravenous,  and  the  temptation  to 
bolt  one's  food  greater.  The  American  is  not  so 
hearty  an  eater  as  the  Englishman,  but  the  forces  of 
his  body  are  constantly  leaving  his  stomach  in  the 
lurch,  and  running  off  into  his  hands  and  feet  and 
head.  His  eyes  are  bigger  than  his  belly,  but  an 
Englishman's  belly  is  a  deal  larger  than  his  eyes, 


149 

and  the  number  of  plum  puddings  and  amount  of 
Welsh  rarebit  he  devours  annually  would  send  the 
best  of  us  to  his  grave  in  half  that  time.  We  have 
not  enough  constitutional  inertia  and  stolidity;  our 
climate  gives  us  no  rest,  but  goads  us  day  and  night ; 
and  the  consequent  wear  and  tear  of  life  is  no  doubt 
greater  in  this  country  than  in  any  other  on  the 
globe.  We  are  playing  the  game  more  rapidly,  and 
I  fear  less  thoroughly  and  sincerely,  than  the  mother 
country. 

The  more  uniform  good  health  of  English  women 
is  thought  to  be  a  matter  of  exercise  in  the  open 
air,  as  walking,  riding,  etc.,  but  the  prime  reason 
is  mainly  a  climatic  one,  uniform  habits  of  exercise 
being  more  easily  kept  up  in  that  climate  than  in 
this,  and  being  less  exhaustive,  one  day  with  another. 
You  can  walk  there  every  day  in  the  year  without 
much  discomfort,  and  the  stimulus  is  about  the 
same.  Here  it  is  too  hot  in  summer  and  too  cold 
in  winter,  or  else  it  keys  you  up  too  tight  one  day 
and  unstrings  you  the  next;  all  fire  and  motion  in 
the  morning,  and  all  listlessness  and  ennui  in  the 
afternoon;  a  spur  one  hour  and  a  sedative  the  next. 

A  watch  Avill  not  keep  as  steady  time  here  as  in 
Britain,  and  the  human  clock-work  is  more  liable  to 
get  out  of  repair  for  the  same  reason.  Our  women, 
especially,  break  down  prematurely,  and  the  decay 
of  maternity  in  this  country  is  no  doubt  greater  than 
in  any  of  the  oldest  civilized  communities.  One  rea 
son,  doubtless,  is  that  our  women  are  the  greatest 
slaves  of  fashion  in  the  whole  world,  and,  in  follow- 


150  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

ing  the  whims  of  that  famous  courtesan,  have  the 
most  fickle  and  destructive  climate  to  contend  with. 

English  women  all  have  good-sized  feet,  and 
Englishmen,  too,  and  wear  large,  comfortable  shoes. 
This  was  a  noticeable  feature  at  once ;  coarse,  loose- 
fitting  clothes  of  both  sexes,  and  large  boots  and 
shoes  with  low  heels.  They  evidently  knew  the 
use  of  their  feet,  and  had  none  of  the  French,  or 
American,  or  Chinese  fastidiousness  about  this  part 
of  their  anatomy.  I  notice  that,  when  a  family  be 
gins  to  run  out,  it  turns  out  its  toes,  drops  off  at 
the  heel,  shortens  its  jaw,  and  dotes  on  small  feet 
and  hands. 

Another  promoter  of  health  in  England  is  woolen 
clothes,  which  are  Avorn  the  year  round,  the  summer 
driving  people  into  no  such  extremities  as  here. 
And  the  good,  honest  woolen  stuffs  of  one  kind  and 
another  that  fill  the  shops  attest  the  need  and  the 
taste  that  prevails.  They  had  a  garment  when  I  was 
in  London  called  the  Ulster  overcoat,  —  a  coarse, 
shaggy,  bungling  coat,  with  a  skirt  nearly  reaching 
to  the  feet,  very  ugly,  tried  by  the  fashion  plates, 
but  very  comfortable,  and  quite  the  fashion.  This 
very  sensible  garment  has  since  become  well  known 
in  America. 

The  Americans  in  London  were  put  out  with  the 
tailors,  and  could  rarely  get  suited,  on  account  of 
the  loose  cutting  and  the  want  of  "style."  But 
"  style  "  is  the  hiatus  that  threatens  to  swallow  us 
all  one  of  these  days.  About  the  only  monstrosity 
I  saw  in  the  British  man's  dress  was  the  stove-pipe 


AN  OCTOBER   ABKOAD  151 

hat,  which  everybody  wears.  At  first  I  feared  it 
might  be  a  police  regulation,  or  a  requirement  of  the 
British  Constitution,  for  I  seemed  to  be  about  the 
only  man  in  the  kingdom  with  a  soft  hat  on,  and  I 
had  noticed  that  before  leaving  the  steamer  every 
man  brought  out  from  its  hiding-place  one  of  these 
polished  brain-squeezers.  Even  the  boys  wear  them, 
—  youths  of  nine  and  ten  years  with  little  stove 
pipe  hats  on ;  and  at  Eton  School  I  saw  black  swarms 
of  them:  even  the  boys  in  the  field  were  playing 
football  in  stove-pipe  hats. 

What  we  call  beauty  in  woman  is  so  much  a  mat 
ter  of  youth  and  health  that  the  average  of  female 
beauty  in  London  is,  I  believe,  higher  than  in  this 
country.  English  women  are  comely  and  good- 
looking.  It  is  an  extremely  fresh  and  pleasant  face 
that  you  see  everywhere,  —  softer,  less  clearly  and 
sharply  cut  than  the  typical  female  face  in  this  coun 
try, —  less  spirituelle,  less  perfect  in  form,  but 
stronger  and  sweeter.  There  is  more  blood,  and 
heart,  and  substance  back  of  it.  The  American 
race  of  the  present  generation  is  doubtless  the  most 
shapely,  both  in  face  and  figure,  that  has  yet  ap 
peared.  American  children  are  far  less  crude,  and 
lumpy,  and  awkward-looking  than  the  European 
children.  One  generation  in  this  country  suffices 
vastly  to  improve  the  looks  of  the  offspring  of  the 
Irish  or  German  or  Norwegian  emigrant.  There  is 
surely  something  in  our  climate  or  conditions  that 
speedily  refines  and  sharpens  —  and,  shall  I  add, 
hardens?  —  the  human  features.  The  face  loses 


152  WINTER   SUXSHINE 

something,  but  it  comes  into  shape;  and  of  such 
beauty  as  is  the  product  of  this  tendency  we  can 
undoubtedly  show  more,  especially  in  our  women, 
than  the  parent  stock  in  Europe;  while  American 
schoolgirls,  I  believe,  have  the  most  bewitching 
beauty  in  the  world. 

The  English  plainness  of  speech  is  observable 
even  in  the  signs  or  notices  along  the  streets.  In 
stead  of  "Lodging,"  "Lodging,"  as  with  us,  one 
sees  "Beds,"  "Beds,"  which  has  a  very  homely 
sound;  and  in  place  of  "gentlemen's"  this,  that,  or 
the  other,  about  public  places,  the  word  "men's"  is 
used. 

I  suppose,  if  it  was  not  for  the  bond  of  a  written 
language  and  perpetual  intercourse,  the  two  nations 
would  not  be  able  to  understand  each  other  in  the 
course  of  a  hundred  years,  the  inflection  and  accent 
uation  is  so  different.  I  recently  heard  an  Eng 
lish  lady  say,  referring  to  the  American  speech,  that 
she  could  hardly  believe  her  own  language  could  be 
spoken  so  strangely. 


ARCHITECTURE 


One  sees  right  away  that  the  English  are  a  home 
people,  a  domestic  people;  and  he  does  not  need  to 
go  into  their  houses  or  homes  to  find  this  out.  It 
is  in  the  air  and  in  the  general  aspect  of  things. 
Everywhere  you  see  the  virtue  and  quality  that  we 
ascribe  to  home-made  articles.  It  seems  as  if  things 
had  been  made  by  hand,  and  with  care  and  affection, 
as  they  have  been.  The  land  of  caste  and  kings, 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  153 

there  is  yet  less  glitter  and  display  than  in  this 
country,  less  publicity,  and,  of  course,  less  rivalry 
and  emulation  also,  for  which  we  pay  very  dearly. 
You  have  got  to  where  the  word  homely  preserves 
its  true  signification,  and  is  no  longer  a  terra  of  dis. 
paragement,  but  expressive  of  a  cardinal  virtue. 

I  liked  the  English  habit  of  naming  their  houses; 
it  shows  the  importance  they  attach  to  their  homes. 
All  about  the  suburbs  of  London  and  in  the  outly 
ing  villages  I  noticed  nearly  every  house  and  cottage 
had  some  appropriate  designation,  as  Terrace  House, 
Oaktree  House,  Ivy  Cottage,  or  some  Villa,  etc., 
usually  cut  into  the  stone  gate-post,  and  this  name 
is  put  on  the  address  of  the  letters.  How  much 
better  to  be  known  by  your  name  than  by  your 
number!  I  believe  the  same  custom  prevails  in  the 
country,  and  is  common  to  the  middle  classes  as 
well  as  to  the  aristocracy.  It  is  a  good  feature. 
A  house  or  a  farm  with  an  appropriate  name,  which 
everybody  recognizes,  must  have  an  added  value  and 
importance. 

Modern  English  houses  are  less  showy  than  ours, 
and  have  more  weight  and  permanence, —  no  flat 
roofs  and  no  painted  outside  shutters.  Indeed,  that 
pride  of  American  country  people,  and  that  abomi 
nation  in  the  landscape,  a  white  house  with  green 
blinds,  I  did  not  see  a  specimen  of  in  England. 
They  do  not  aim  to  make  their  houses  conspicuous, 
but  the  contrary.  They  make  a  large,  yellowish 
brick  that  has  a  pleasing  effect  in  the  wall.  Then 
a  very  short  space  of  time  in  that  climate  suffices  to 


154  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

take  off  the  effect  of  newness,  and  give  a  mellow, 
sober  hue  to  the  building.  Another  advantage  of 
the  climate  is  that  it  permits  outside  plastering. 
Thus  almost  any  stone  may  be  imitated,  and  the 
work  endure  for  ages;  while  our  sudden  changes, 
and  extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  of  dampness  and  dry- 
ness,  will  cause  the  best  work  of  this  kind  to  peel 
off  in  a  few  years. 

Then  this  people  have  better  taste  in  building 
than  we  have,  perhaps  because  they  have  the  no 
blest  samples  and  specimens  of  architecture  con 
stantly  before  them, —  those  old  feudal  castles  and 
royal  residences,  for  instance.  I  was  astonished  to 
see  how  homely  and  good  they  looked,  how  little 
they  challenged  admiration,  and  how  much  they 
emulated  rocks  and  trees.  They  were  surely  built 
in  a  simpler  and  more  poetic  age  than  this.  It  was 
like  meeting  some  plain,  natural  nobleman  after 
contact  with  one  of  the  bedizened,  artificial  sort. 
The  Tower  of  London,  for  instance,  is  as  pleasing 
to  the  eye,  has  the  same  fitness  and  harmony,  as  a 
hut  in  the  woods;  and  I  should  think  an  artist 
might  have  the  same  pleasure  in  copying  it  into  his 
picture  as  he  would  in  copying  a  pioneer's  log  cabin. 
So  with  Windsor  Castle,  which  has  the  beauty  of  a 
ledge  of  rocks,  and  crowns  the  hill  like  a  vast  natu 
ral  formation.  The  warm,  simple  interior,  too,  of 
these  castles  and  palaces,  the  honest  oak  without 
paint  or  varnish,  the  rich  wood  carvings,  the  ripe  hu 
man  tone  and  atmosphere,  —  how  it  all  contrasts,  for 
instance,  with  the  showy,  gilded,  cast-iron  interior 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  155 

of  our  commercial  or  political  palaces,  where  every 
thing  that  smacks  of  life  or  nature  is  studiously  ex 
cluded  under  the  necessity  of  making  the  building 
fire-proof. 

I  was  not  less  pleased  with  the  higher  ornamental 
architecture,  —  the  old  churches  and  cathedrals,  — 
which  appealed  to  me  in  a  way  architecture  had 
never  before  done.  In  fact,  I  found  that  I  had 
never  seen  architecture  before, —  a  building  with 
genius  and  power  in  it,  and  that  one  could  look  at 
with  the  eye  of  the  imagination.  Not  mechanics 
merely,  but  poets,  had  wrought  and  planned  here, 
and  the  granite  was  tender  with  human  qualities. 
The  plants  and  weeds  growing  in  the  niches  and 
hollows  of  the  walls,  the  rooks  and  martins  and 
jackdaws  inhabiting  the  towers  and  breeding  about 
the  eaves,  are  but  types  of  the  feelings  and  emotions 
of  the  human  heart  that  flit  and  hover  over  these  old 
piles,  and  find  affectionate  lodgment  in  them. 

Time,  of  course,  has  done  a  great  deal  for  this 
old  architecture.  Nature  has  taken  it  lovingly  to 
herself,  has  set  her  seal  upon  it,  and  adopted  it  into 
her  system.  Just  the  foil  which  beauty  —  espe 
cially  the  crystallic  beauty  of  architecture  —  needs 
has  been  given  by  this  hazy,  mellowing  atmosphere. 
As  the  grace  and  suggestiveness  of  all  objects  are 
enhanced  by  a  fall  of  snow,  —  forest,  fence,  hive, 
shed,  knoll,  rock,  tree,  all  being  laid  under  the 
same  white  enchantment,  —  so  time  has  wrought  in 
softening  and  toning  down  this  old  religious  archi 
tecture,  and  bringing  it  into  harmony  with  nature. 


156  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

Our  climate  has  a  much  keener  edge,  both  of 
frost  and  fire,  and  touches  nothing  so  gently  or  crea 
tively;  yet  time  would,  no  doubt,  do  much  for  our 
architecture,  if  we  would  give  it  a  chance,  —  for  that 
apotheosis  of  prose,  the  National  Capitol  at  Washing 
ton,  upon  which,  I  notice,  a  returned  traveler  bases 
our  claim  to  be  considered  "ahead"  of  the  Old 
World,  even  in  architecture;  but  the  reigning  gods 
interfere,  and  each  spring  or  fall  give  the  building 
a  clean  shirt  in  the  shape  of  a  coat  of  white  paint. 
In  like  manner,  other  public  buildings  never  become 
acclimated,  but  are  annually  scoured  with  soap  and 
sand,  the  national  passion  for  the  brightness  of  new 
ness  interfering  to  defeat  any  benison  which  the 
gods  might  be  disposed  to  pronounce  upon  them. 
Spotlessness,  I  know,  is  not  a  characteristic  of  our 
politics,  though  it  is  said  that  Avhitewashing  is, 
which  may  account  for  this  ceaseless  paint-pot  reno 
vation  of  our  public  buildings.  In  a  world  lit  only 
by  the  moon,  our  Capitol  would  be  a  paragon  of 
beauty,  and  the  spring  whitewashing  could  also  be 
endured;  but  under  our  blazing  sun  and  merciless 
sky  it  parches  the  vision,  and  makes  it  turn  with 
a  feeling  of  relief  to  rocks  and  trees,  or  to  some 
weather-stained,  dilapidated  shed  or  hovel. 

How  winningly  and  picturesquely  in  comparison 
the  old  architecture  of  London  addresses  itself  to 
the  eye, —  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  for  instance,  with  its 
vast  blotches  and  stains,  as  if  it  had  been  dipped  in 
some  black  Lethe  of  oblivion,  and  then  left  to  be 
restored  by  the  rains  and  the  elements !  This  black 


AN   OCTOBEE   ABROAD  157 

Lethe  is  the  London  smoke  and  fog,  which  has  left 
a  dark  deposit  over  all  the  building,  except  the  up 
per  and  more  exposed  parts,  where  the  original  sil 
very  whiteness  of  the  stone  shows  through,  the  effect 
of  the  whole  thus  being  like  one  of  those  graphic 
Rembrandt  photographs  or  carbons,  the  prominences 
in  a  strong  light,  and  the  rest  in  deepest  shadow.  I 
was  never  tired  of  looking  at  this  noble  building, 
and  of  going  out  of  my  way  to  walk  around  it;  but 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  the  pleasure  I  had 
in  it  arose  from  my  love  of  nature,  or  from  a  suscep 
tibility  to  art  for  which  I  had  never  given  myself 
credit.  Perhaps  from  both,  for  I  seemed  to  behold 
Art  turning  toward  and  reverently  acknowledging  Na 
ture, —  indeed,  in  a  manner  already  become  Nature. 
I  believe  the  critics  of  such  things  find  plenty  of 
fault  with  St.  Paul's;  and  even  I  could  see  that  its 
bigness  was  a  little  prosy,  that  it  suggested  the  his 
toric  rather  than  the  poetic  muse,  etc. ;  yet,  for  all 
that,  I  could  never  look  at  it  without  a  profound 
emotion.  Viewed  coolly  and  critically,  it  might  seem 
like  a  vast  specimen  of  Episcopalianism  in  architec 
ture.  Miltonic  in  its  grandeur  and  proportions,  and 
Miltonic  in  its  prosiness  and  mongrel  classicism  also, 
yet  its  power  and  effectiveness  are  unmistakable. 
The  beholder  has  no  vantage-ground  from  which  to 
view  it,  or  take  in  its  total  effect,  on  account  of  its 
being  so  closely  beset  by  such  a  mob  of  shops  and 
buildings;  yet  the  glimpses  he  does  get  here  and 
there  through  the  opening  made  by  some  street, 
when  passing  in  its  vicinity,  are  very  striking  and 


158  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

suggestive ;  the  thin  veil  of  smoke,  which  is  here  as 
constant  and  uniform  as  the  atmosphere  itself,  wrap 
ping  it  about  with  the  enchantment  of  time  and  dis 
tance. 

The  interior  I  found  even  more  impressive  than 
the  exterior,  perhaps  because  I  was  unprepared  for 
it.  I  had  become  used  to  imposing  exteriors  at 
home,  and  did  not  reflect  that  in  a  structure  like  this 
I  should  see  an  interior  also,  and  that  here  alone 
the  soul  of  the  building  would  be  fully  revealed.  It 
was  Miltonic  in  the  best  sense ;  it  was  like  the  might 
iest  organ  music  put  into  form.  Such  depths,  such 
solemn  vastness,  such  gulfs  and  abysses  of  architec 
tural  space,  the  rich,  mellow  light,  the  haze  outside 
becoming  a  mysterious,  hallowing  presence  within, 
quite  mastered  me,  and  I  sat  down  upon  a  seat,  feel 
ing  my  first  genuine  cathedral  intoxication.  As  it 
was  really  an  intoxication,  a  sense  of  majesty  and 
power  quite  overwhelming  in  my  then  uncloyed  con 
dition,  I  speak  of  it  the  more  freely.  My  compan 
ions  rushed  about  as  if  each  one  had  had  a  search- 
warrant  in  his  pocket ;  but  I  was  content  to  uncover 
my  head  and  drop  into  a  seat,  and  busy  my  mind 
with  some  simple  object  near  at  hand,  while  the 
sublimity  that  soared  about  me  stole  into  my  soul 
and  possessed  it.  My  sensation  was  like  that  im 
parted  by  suddenly  reaching  a  great  altitude:  there 
was  a  sort  of  relaxation  of  the  muscles,  followed  by 
a  sense  of  physical  weakness;  and  after  half  an  hour 
or  so  I  felt  compelled  to  go  out  into  the  open  air, 
and  leave  till  another  day  the  final  survey  of  the 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  159 

building.  Next  day  I  came  back,  but  there  can  be 
only  one  first  time,  and  I  could  not  again  surprise 
myself  with  the  same  feeling  of  wonder  and  intoxi 
cation.  But  St.  Paul's  will  bear  many  visits.  I 
came  again  and  again,  and  never  grew  tired  of  it. 
Crossing  its  threshold  was  entering  another  world, 
where  the  silence  and  solitude  were  so  profound  and 
overpowering  that  the  noise  of  the  streets  outside, 
or  of  the  stream  of  visitors,  or  of  the  workmen  en 
gaged  on  the  statuary,  made  no  impression.  They 
were  all  belittled,  lost,  like  the  humming  of  flies. 
Even  the  afternoon  services,  the  chanting,  and  the 
tremendous  organ,  were  no  interruption,  and  left 
me  just  as  much  alone  as  ever.  They  only  served 
to  set  off  the  silence,  to  fathom  its  depth. 

The  dome  of  St.  Paul's  is  the  original  of  our 
dome  at  Washington;  but  externally  I  think  ours 
is  the  more  graceful  of  the  two,  though  the  effect 
inside  is  tame  and  flat  in  comparison.  This  is 
owing  partly  to  the  lesser  size  and  height,  and  partly 
to  our  hard,  transparent  atmosphere,  which  lends  no 
charm  or  illusion,  but  mainly  to  the  stupid,  unim 
aginative  plan  of  it.  Our  dome  shuts  down  like  an 
inverted  iron  pot;  there  is  no  vista,  no  outlook,  no 
relation,  and  hence  no  proportion.  You  open  a 
door  and  are  in  a  circular  pen,  and  can  look  in  only 
one  direction, —  up.  If  the  iron  pot  were  slashed 
through  here  and  there,  or  if  it  rested  on  a  row  of 
tall  columns  or  piers,  and  was  shown  to  be  a  legiti 
mate  part  of  the  building,  it  would  not  appear  the 
exhausted  receiver  it  does  now. 


160  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

The  dome  of  St.  Paul's  is  the  culmination  of  the 
whole  interior  of  the  building.  Rising  over  the 
central  area,  it  seems  to  gather  up  the  power  and 
majesty  of  the  nave,  the  aisles,  the  transepts,  the 
choir,  and  give  them  expression  and  expansion  in 
its  lofty  firmament. 

Then  those  colossal  piers,  forty  feet  broad  some 
of  them,  and  nearly  one  hundred  feet  high, —  they 
easily  eclipsed  what  I  had  recently  seen  in  a  mine, 
and  which  I  at  the  time  imagined  shamed  all  the 
architecture  of  the  world, — where  the  mountain  was 
upheld  over  a  vast  space  by  massive  piers  left  by 
the  miners,  with  a  ceiling  unrolled  over  your  head, 
and  apparently  descending  upon  you,  that  looked 
like  a  petrified  thunder-cloud. 

The  view  from  the  upper  gallery,  or  top  of  the 
dome,  looking  down  inside,  is  most  impressive.  The 
public  are  not  admitted  to  this  gallery,  for  fear,  the 
keeper  told  me,  it  would  become  the  scene  of  sui 
cides;  people  unable  to  withstand  the  terrible  fas 
cination  would  leap  into  the  yawning  gulf.  But, 
with  the  privilege  usually  accorded  to  Americans,  I 
stepped  down  into  the  narrow  circle,  and,  leaning 
over  the  balustrade,  coolly  looked  the  horrible  temp 
tation  in  the  face. 

On  the  whole,  St.  Paul's  is  so  vast  and  imposing 
that  one  wonders  what  occasion  or  what  ceremony 
can  rise  to  the  importance  of  not  being  utterly 
dwarfed  within  its  walls.  The  annual  gathering  of 
the  charity  children,  ten  or  twelve  thousand  in 
number,  must  make  a  ripple  or  two  upon  its  soli- 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  161 

tude,  or  an  exhibition  like  the  thanksgiving  of  the 
Queen,  when  sixteen  or  eighteen  thousand  persons 
were  assembled  beneath  its  roof.  But  one  cannot 
forget  that  it  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  great  toy, —  a 
mammoth  shell,  whose  bigness  bears  no  proportion 
to  the  living  (if,  indeed,  it  is  living),  indwelling 
necessity.  It  is  a  tenement  so  large  that  the  tenant 
looks  cold  and  forlorn,  and  in  danger  of  being  lost 
within  it. 

No  such  objection  can  be  made  to  Westminster 
Abbey,  which  is  a  mellow,  picturesque  old  place, 
the  interior  arrangement  and  architecture  of  which 
affects  one  like  some  ancient,  dilapidated  forest. 
Even  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the  dim  win 
dows,  and  falling  athwart  the  misty  air,  was  like 
the  sunlight  of  a  long-gone  age.  The  very  atmos 
phere  was  pensive,  and  filled  the  tall  spaces  like  a 
memory  and  a  dream.  I  sat  down  and  listened  to 
the  choral  service  and  to  the  organ,  which  blended 
perfectly  with  the  spirit  and  sentiment  of  the  place. 


ON   THE   SOUTH   DOWNS 


One  of  my  best  days  in  England  was  spent  amid 
the  singing  of  skylarks  on  the  South  Down  Hills, 
near  an  old  town  at  the  mouth  of  the  Little  Ouse, 
where  I  paused  on  my  way  to  France.  The  pros 
pect  of  hearing  one  or  two  of  the  classical  birds  of 
the  Old  World  had  not  been  the  least  of  the  attrac 
tions  of  my  visit,  though  I  knew  the  chances  were 
against  me  so  late  in  the  season,  and  I  have  to  thank 
my  good  genius  for  guiding  me  to  the  right  place  at 


162  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  right  time.  To  get  out  of  London  was  delight 
enough,  and  then  to  find  myself  quite  unexpectedly 
on  these  soft  rolling  hills,  of  a  mild  October  day, 
in  full  sight  of  the  sea,  with  the  larks  pouring  out 
their  gladness  overhead,  was  to  me  good  fortune 
indeed. 

The  South  Downs  form  a  very  remarkable  feature 
of  this  part  of  England,  and  are  totally  unlike  any 
other  landscape  I  ever  saw.  I  believe  it  is  Huxley 
who  applies  to  them  the  epithet  of  muttony,  which 
they  certainly  deserve,  for  they  are  like  the  backs  of 
immense  sheep,  smooth,  and  round,  and  fat,  —  so 
smooth,  indeed,  that  the  eye  can  hardly  find  a  place 
to  take  hold  of,  not  a  tree,  or  bush,  or  fence,  or 
house,  or  rock,  or  stone,  or  other  object,  for  miles 
and  miles,  save  here  and  there  a  group  of  straw- 
capped  stacks,  or  a  flock  of  sheep  crawling  slowly 
over  them,  attended  by  a  shepherd  and  dog,  and 
the  only  lines  visible  those  which  bound  the  squares 
where  different  crops  had  been  gathered.  The  soil 
was  rich  and  mellow,  like  a  garden, — hills  of  chalk 
with  a  pellicle  of  black  loam. 

These  hills  stretch  a  great  distance  along  the 
coast,  and  are  cut  squarely  off  by  the  sea,  presenting 
on  this  side  a  chain  of  white  chalk  cliffs  suggesting 
the  old  Latin  name  of  this  land,  Albion. 

Before  I  had  got  fifty  yards  from  the  station  I 
began  to  hear  the  larks,  and  being  unprepared  for 
them  I  was  a  little  puzzled  at  first,  but  was  not  long 
in  discovering  what  luck  I  was  in.  The  song  disap 
pointed  me  at  first,  being  less  sweet  and  melodious 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  163 

than  I  had  expected  to  hear;  indeed,  I  thought  it  a 
little  sharp  and  harsh,  —  a  little  stubbly,  —  but  in 
other  respects,  in  strength  and  gladness  and  conti 
nuity,  it  was  wonderful.  And  the  more  I  heard 
it  the  better  I  liked  it,  until  I  would  gladly  have 
given  any  of  my  songsters  at  home  for  a  bird  that 
could  shower  down  such  notes,  even  in  autumn. 
Up,  up,  went  the  bird,  describing  a  large  easy  spiral 
till  he  attained  an  altitude  of  three  or  four  hundred 
feet,  when,  spread  out  against  the  sky  for  a  space 
of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  or  more,  he  poured  out 
his  delight,  filling  all  the  vault  with  sound.  The 
song  is  of  the  sparrow  kind,  and,  in  its  best  parts, 
perpetually  suggested  the  notes  of  our  vesper  spar 
row;  but  the  wonder  of  it  is  its  copiousness  and 
sustained  strength.  There  is  no  theme,  no  begin 
ning,  middle,  or  end,  like  most  of  our  best  bird- 
songs,  but  a  perfect  swarm  of  notes  pouring  out  like 
bees  from  a  hive,  and  resembling  each  other  nearly 
as  closely,  and  only  ceasing  as  the  bird  nears  the 
earth  again.  We  have  many  more  melodious  song 
sters  ;  the  bobolink  in  the  meadows  for  instance,  the 
vesper  sparrow  in  the  pastures,  the  purple  finch  in 
the  groves,  the  winter  wren,  or  any  of  the  thrushes 
in  the  woods,  or  the  wood-wagtail,  whose  air  song 
is  of  a  similar  character  to  that  of  the  skylark's,  and 
is  even  more  rapid  and  ringing,  and  is  delivered  in 
nearly  the  same  manner;  but  our  birds  all  stop 
when  the  skylark  has  only  just  begun.  Away  he 
goes  on  quivering  wing,  inflating  his  throat  fuller 
and  fuller,  mounting  and  mounting,  and  turning  to 


164  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

all  points  of  the  compass  as  if  to  embrace  the  whole 
landscape  in  his  song,  the  notes  still  raining  upon 
you,  as  distinct  as  ever,  after  you  have  left  him  far 
behind.  You  feel  that  you  need  be  in  no  hurry  to 
observe  the  song  lest  the  bird  finish ;  you  walk  along, 
your  mind  reverts  to  other  things,  you  examine  the 
grass  and  weeds,  or  search  for  a  curious  stone,  still 
there  goes  the  bird;  you  sit  down  and  study  the 
landscape,  or  send  your  thoughts  out  toward  France 
or  Spain,  or  across  the  sea  to  your  own  land,  and 
yet,  when  you  get  them  back,  there  is  that  song 
above  you,  almost  as  unceasing  as  the  light  of  a  star. 
This  strain  indeed  suggests  some  rare  pyrotechnic 
display,  musical  sounds  being  substituted  for  the 
many-colored  sparks  and  lights.  And  yet  I  will 
add,  what  perhaps  the  best  readers  do  not  need  to 
be  told,  that  neither  the  lark-song,  nor  any  other 
bird-song  in  the  open  air  and  under  the  sky,  is  as 
noticeable  a  feature  as  my  description  of  it  might 
imply,  or  as  the  poets  would  have  us  believe;  and 
that  most  persons,  not  especially  interested  in  birds 
or  their  notes,  and  intent  upon  the  general  beauty 
of  the  landscape,  would  probably  pass  it  by  unre 
marked. 

I  suspect  that  it  is  a  little  higher  flight  than  the 
facts  will  bear  out  when  the  writers  make  the  birds 
go  out  of  sight  'into  the  sky.  I  could  easily  follow 
them  on  this  occasion,  though,  if  I  took  my  eye 
away  for  a  moment,  it  was  very  difficult  to  get  it 
back  again.  I  had  to  search  for  them  as  the  astron 
omer  searches  for  a  star.  It  may  be  that  in  the 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  165 

spring,  when  the  atmosphere  is  less  clear  and  the 
heart  of  the  bird  full  of  a  more  mad  and  reckless 
love,  that  the  climax  is  not  reached  until  the  eye 
loses  sight  of  the  singer. 

Several  attempts  have  been  made  to  introduce  the 
lark  into  this  country,  but  for  some  reason  or  other 
the  experiment  has  never  succeeded.  The  birds  have 
been  liberated  in  Virginia  and  on  Long  Island,  but 
do  not  seem  to  have  ever  been  heard  of  afterwards. 
I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  not  thrive  any 
where  along  our  Atlantic  seaboard,  and  I  think  the 
question  of  introducing  them  worthy  of  more  thor 
ough  and  serious  attention  than  has  yet  been  given 
it,  for  the  lark  is  really  an  institution ;  and  as  he 
sings  long  after  the  other  birds  are  silent,  —  as  if 
he  had  perpetual  spring  in  his  heart,  —  he  would  be 
a  great  acquisition  to  our  fields  and  meadows.  It 
may  be  that  he  cannot  stand  the  extremes  of  our 
climate,  though  the  English  sparrow  thrives  well 
enough.  The  Smithsonian  Institution  has  received 
specimens  of  the  skylark  from  Alaska,  where,  no 
doubt,  they  find  a  climate  more  like  the  English. 

They  have  another  prominent  singer  in  England, 
namely,  the  robin, —  the  original  robin  redbreast, — 
a  slight,  quick,  active  bird  with  an  orange  front  and 
an  olive  back,  and  a  bright,  musical  warble  that  I 
caught  by  every  garden,  lane,  and  'hedge-row.  It 
suggests  our  bluebird,  and  has  similar  habits  and 
manners,  though  it  is  a  much  better  musician. 

The  European  bird  that  corresponds  to  our  robin 
is  the  blackbird,  of  which  Tennyson  sings :  — 


166  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

"  O  Blackbird,  sing  me  something  well ; 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee  round 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground 
Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell." 

It  quite  startled  me  to  see  such  a  resemblance,—— 
to  see,  indeed,  a  black  robin.  In  size,  form,  flight, 
manners,  note,  call,  there  is  hardly  an  appreciable 
difference.  The  bird  starts  up  with  the  same  flirt 
of  the  wings,  and  calls  out  in  the  same  jocund,  salu 
tatory  way,  as  he  hastens  off.  The  nest,  of  coarse 
mortar  in  the  fork  of  a  tree,  or  in  an  outbuilding, 
or  in  the  side  of  a  wall,  is  also  the  same. 

The  bird  I  wished  most  to  hear,  namely,  the 
nightingale,  had  already  departed  on  its  southern 
journey.  I  saw  one  in  the  Zoological  Gardens  in 
London,  and  took  a  good  look  at  him.  He  struck 
me  as  bearing  a  close  resemblance  to  our  hermit 
thrush,  with  something  in  his  manners  that  sug 
gested  the  water-thrush  also.  Carlyle  said  he  first 
recognized  its  song  from  the  description  of  it  in 
"Wilhelm  Meister,"  and  that  it  was  a  "sudden 
burst,"  which  is  like  the  song  of  our  water-thrush. 

I  have  little  doubt  our  songsters  excel  in  melody, 
while  the  European  birds  excel  in  profuseness  and 
volubility.  I  heard  many  bright,  animated  notes 
and  many  harsh  ones,  but  few  that  were  melodious. 
This  fact  did  not  harmonize  with  the  general  drift 
of  the  rest  of  my  observations,  for  one  of  the  first 
things  that  strikes  an  American  in  Europe  is  the 
mellowness  and  rich  tone  of  things.  The  European 
is  softer- voiced  than  the  American  and  milder-man 
nered,  but  the  bird  voices  seem  an  exception  to  this 
rule. 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  167 


While  in  London  I  had  much  pleasure  in  strolling 
through  the  great  parks,  Hyde  Park,  Regent's  Park, 
St.  James  Park,  Victoria  Park,  etc.,  and  in  making 
Sunday  excursions  to  Richmond  Park  or  Hampden 
Court  Parks,  or  the  great  parks  at  Windsor  Castle. 
The  magnitude  of  all  these  parks  was  something  I 
was  entirely  unprepared  for,  and  their  freedom  also; 
one  could  roam  where  he  pleased.  Not  once  did  I 
see  a  signboard,  "Keep  off  the  grass,"  or  go  here  or 
go  there.  There  was  grass  enough,  and  one  could 
launch  out  in  every  direction  without  fear  of  tres 
passing  on  forbidden  ground.  One  gets  used,  at 
least  I  do,  to  such  petty  parks  at  home,  and  walks 
amid  them  so  cautiously  and  circumspectly,  every 
shrub  and  tree  and  grass  plat  saying  "Hands  off," 
that  it  is  a  new  sensation  to  enter  a  city  pleasure 
ground  like  Hyde  Park,  —  a  vast  natural  landscape, 
nearly  two  miles  long  and  a  mile  wide,  with  broad, 
rolling  plains,  with  herds  of  sheep  grazing,  and  for 
ests  and  lakes,  and  all  as  free  as  the  air.  We  have 
some  quite  sizable  parks  and  reservations  in  Wash 
ington,  and  the  citizen  has  the  right  of  way  over 
their  tortuous  gravel  walks,  but  he  puts  his  foot 
upon  the  grass  at  the  risk  of  being  insolently  hailed 
by  the  local  police.  I  have  even  been  called  to 
order  for  reclining  upon  a  seat  under  a  tree  in  the 
Smithsonian  grounds.  I  must  sit  upright  as  in 
church.  But  in  Hyde  Park  or  Regent's  Park  I 
could  not  only  walk  upon  the  grass,  but  lie  upon 


168  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

it,  or  roll  upon  it,  or  play  "one  catch  all"  with 
children,  boys,  dogs,  or  sheep  upon  it;  and  I  took 
my  revenge  for  once  for  being  so  long  confined  to 
gravel  walks,  and  gave  the  grass  an  opportunity  to 
grow  under  my  foot  whenever  I  entered  one  of  these 
parks. 

This  free-and-easy  rural  character  of  the  London 
parks  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the  tone  and  atmos 
phere  of  the  great  metropolis  itself,  which  in  so 
many  respects  has  a  country  homeliness  and  sincer 
ity,  and  shows  the  essentially  bucolic  taste  of  the 
people;  contrasting  in  this  respect  with  the  parks 
and  gardens  of  Paris,  which  show  as  unmistakably 
the  citizen  and  the  taste  for  art  and  the  beauty  of 
design  and  ornamentation.  Hyde  Park  seems  to 
me  the  perfection  of  a  city  pleasure  ground  of  this 
kind,  because  it  is  so  free  and  so  thoroughly  a  piece 
of  the  country,  and  so  exempt  from  any  petty  artis 
tic  displays. 

In  walking  over  Richmond  Park  I  found  I  had 
quite  a  day's  work  before  me,  as  it  was  like  travers 
ing  a  township;  while  the  great  park  at  Windsor 
Castle,  being  upwards  of  fifty  miles  around,  might 
well  make  the  boldest  pedestrian  hesitate.  My  first 
excursion  was  to  Hampden  Court,  an  old  royal  resi 
dence,  where  I  spent  a  delicious  October  day  wan 
dering  through  Bushy  Park,  and  looking  with  covet 
ous,  though  admiring  eyes  upon  the  vast  herds  of 
deer  that  dotted  the  plains,  or  gave  way  before  me 
as  I  entered  the  woods.  There  seemed  literally  to 
be  many  thousands  of  these  beautiful  animals  in  this 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  169 

park,  and  the  loud,  hankering  sounds  of  the  bucks, 
as  they  pursued  or  circled  around  the  does,  was  a 
new  sound  to  my  ears.  The  rabbits  and  pheasants 
also  were  objects  of  the  liveliest  interest  to  me,  and 
I  found  that  after  all  a  good  shot  at  them  with 
the  eye,  especially  when  I  could  credit  myself  with 
alertness  or  stealthiness,  was  satisfaction  enough. 

I  thought  it  worthy  of  note  that,  though  these 
great  parks  in  and  about  London  were  so  free,  and 
apparently  without  any  police  regulations  whatever, 
yet  I  never  saw  prowling  about  them  any  of  those 
vicious,  ruffianly-looking  characters  that  generally 
infest  the  neighborhood  of  our  great  cities,  especially 
of  a  Sunday.  There  were  troops  of  boys,  but  they 
were  astonishingly  quiet  and  innoxious,  very  unlike 
American  boys,  white  or  black,  a  band  of  whom 
making  excursions  into  the  'country  are  always  a 
band  of  outlaws.  Ruffianism  with  us  is  no  doubt 
much  more  brazen  and  pronounced,  not  merely  be 
cause  the  law  is  lax,  but  because  such  is  the  genius 
of  the  people. 


170  WINTEE  SUNSHINE 


n 

ENGLISH   CHARACTERISTICS 

is  a  mellow  country,  and  the  English 
people  are  a  mellow  people.  They  have  hung 
on  the  tree  of  nations  a  long  time,  and  will,  no 
doubt,  hang  as  much  longer;  for  windfalls,  I  reckon, 
are  not  the  order  in  this  island.  We  are  pitched 
several  degrees  higher  in  this  country.  By  con 
trast,  things  here  are  loud,  sharp,  and  garish.  Our 
geography  is  loud;  the  manners  of  the  people  are 
loud;  our  climate  is  loud,  very  loud,  so  dry  and 
sharp,  and  full  of  violent  changes  and  contrasts; 
and  our  goings-out  and  comings-in  as  a  nation  are 
anything  but  silent.  Do  we  not  occasionally  give 
the  door  an  extra  slam  just  for  effect? 

In  England  everything  is  on  a  lower  key,  slower, 
steadier,  gentler.  Life  is,  no  doubt,  as  full,  or 
fuller,  in  its  material  forms  and  measures,  but  less 
violent  and  aggressive.  The  buffers  the  English 
have  between  their  cars  to  break  the  shock  are 
typical  of  much  one  sees  there. 

All  sounds  are  softer  in  England;  the  surface  of 
things  is  less  hard.  The  eye  of  day  and  the  face  of 
Nature  are  less  bright.  Everything  has  a  mellow, 
subdued  cast.  There  is  no  abruptness  in  the  land- 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  171 

scape,  no  sharp  and  violent  contrasts,  no  brilliant 
and  striking  tints  in  the  foliage.  A  soft,  pale  yel 
low  is  all  one  sees  in  the  way  of  tints  along  the 
borders  of  the  autumn  woods.  English  apples  (very 
small  and  inferior,  by  the  way)  are  not  so  highly 
colored  as  ours.  The  blackberries,  just  ripening  in 
October,  are  less  pungent  and  acid ;  and  the  garden 
vegetables,  such  as  cabbage,  celery,  cauliflower,  beet, 
and  other  root  crops,  are  less  rank  and  fibrous;  and 
I  am  very  sure  that  the  meats  also  are  tenderer  and 
sweeter.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  superi 
ority  of  mutton ;  and  the  tender  and  succulent  grass, 
and  the  moist  and  agreeable  climate,  must  tell  upon 
the  beef  also. 

English  coal  is  all  soft  coal,  and  the  stone  is  soft 
stone.  The  foundations  of  the  hills  are  chalk  in 
stead  of  granite.  The  stone  with  which  most  of 
the  old  churches  and  cathedrals  are  built  would  not 
endure  in  our  climate  half  a  century;  but  in  Britain 
the  tooth  of  Time  is  much  blunter,  and  the  hunger 
of  the  old  man  less  ravenous,  and  the  ancient  archi 
tecture  stands  half  a  millennium,  or  until  it  is 
slowly  worn  away  by  the  gentle  attrition  of  the 
wind  and  rain. 

At  Chester,  the  old  Roman  wall  that  surrounds 
the  town,  built  in  the  first  century  and  repaired  in  the 
ninth,  is  still  standing  without  a  break  or  a  swerve, 
though  in  some  places  the  outer  face  of  the  wall 
is  worn  through.  The  Cathedral,  and  St.  John's 
Church,  in  the  same  town,  present  to  the  beholder 
outlines  as  jagged  and  broken  as  rocks  and  cliffs; 


172  WINTER    SUNSHINE 

and  yet  it  is  only  chip  by  chip,  or  grain  by  grain, 
that  ruin  approaches.  The  timber  also  lasts  an  in 
credibly  long  time.  Beneath  one  of  the  arched 
ways,  in  the  Chester  wall  above  referred  to,  I  saw 
timbers  that  must  have  been  in  place  five  or  six 
hundred  years.  The  beams  in  the  old  houses,  also 
fully  exposed  to  the  weather,  seem  incapable  of  de 
cay;  those  dating  from  Shakespeare's  time  being 
apparently  as  firm  as  ever. 

I  noticed  that  the  characteristic  aspect  of  the 
clouds  in  England  Avas  different  from  ours,  —  soft, 
fleecy,  vapory,  indistinguishable,  —  never  the  firm, 
compact,  sharply-defined,  deeply-dyed  masses  and 
fragments  so  common  in  our  own  sky.  It  rains 
easily  but  slowly.  The  average  rainfall  of  London 
is  less  than  that  of  New  York,  and  yet  it  doubtless 
rains  ten  days  in  the  former  to  one  in  the  latter. 
Storms  accompanied  with  thunder  are  rare;  while 
the  crashing,  wrenching,  explosive  thunder-gusts  so 
common  with  us,  deluging  the  earth  and  convulsing 
the  heavens,  are  seldom  known. 

In  keeping  with  this  elemental  control  and  mod 
eration,  I  found  the  character  and  manners  of  the 
people  gentler  and  sweeter  than  I  had  been  led  to 
believe  they  were.  No  loudness,  brazenness,  im 
pertinence;  no  oaths,  no  swaggering,  no  leering  at 
women,  no  irreverence,  no  flippancy,  no  bullying, 
no  insolence  of  porters  or  clerks  or  conductors,  no 
importunity  of  bootblacks  or  newsboys,  no  omniv- 
orousness  of  hackmen,  —  at  least,  comparatively 
none,  —  all  of  which  an  American  is  apt  to  notice, 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  173 

and  I  hope  appreciate.  In  London  the  bootblack 
salutes  you  with  a  respectful  bow  and  touches  his 
cap,  and  would  no  more  think  of  pursuing  you  or 
answering  your  refusal  than  he  would  of  jumping 
into  the  Thames.  The  same  is  true  of  the  news 
boys.  If  they  were  to  scream  and  bellow  in  Lon 
don  as  they  do  in  New  York  or  Washington,  they 
would  be  suppressed  by  the  police,  as  they  ought  to 
be.  The  vender  of  papers  stands  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  with  his  goods  in  his  arms,  and  a  large 
placard  spread  out  at  his  feet,  giving  in  big  letters 
the  principal  news-headings. 

Street-cries  of  all  kinds  are  less  noticeable,  less 
aggressive,  than  in  this  country,  and  the  manners 
of  the  shopmen  make  you  feel  you  are  conferring  a 
benefit  instead  of  receiving  one.  Even  their  loco 
motives  are  less  noisy  than  ours,  having  a  shrill, 
infantile  whistle  that  contrasts  strongly  with  the 
loud,  demoniac  yell  that  makes  a  residence  near  a 
railway  or  depot,  in  this  country,  so  unbearable. 
The  trains  themselves  move  with  wonderful  smooth 
ness  and  celerity,  making  a  mere  fraction  of  the 
racket  made  by  our  flying  palaces  as  they  go  sway 
ing  and  jolting  over  our  hasty,  ill- ballasted  roads. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  English  prudence  and 
plain  dealing,  that  they  put  so  little  on  the  cars  and 
so  much  on  the  road,  while  the  reverse  process  is 
equally  characteristic  of  American  enterprise.  Our 
railway  system  no  doubt  has  certain  advantages,  or 
rather  conveniences,  over  the  English,  but,  for  my 
part,  I  had  rather  ride  smoothly,  swiftly,  and  safely 


174  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

in  a  luggage  van  than  be  jerked  and  jolted  to  de 
struction  in  the  velvet  and  veneering  of  our  palace 
cars.  Upholster  the  road  first,  and  let  us  ride  on 
bare  boards  until  a  cushion  can  be  afforded;  not 
till  after  the  bridges  are  of  granite  and  iron,  and 
the  rails  of  steel,  do  we  want  this  more  than  aristo 
cratic  splendor  and  luxury  of  palace  and  drawing- 
room  cars.  To  me  there  is  no  more  marked  sign  of 
the  essential  vulgarity  of  the  national  manners  than 
these  princely  cars  and  beggarly,  clap-trap  roads. 
It  is  like  a  man  wearing  a  ruffled  and  jeweled  shirt- 
front,  but  too  poor  to  afford  a  shirt  itself. 

I  have  said  the  English  are  a  sweet  and  mellow 
people.  There  is,  indeed,  a  charm  about  these  an 
cestral  races  that  goes  to  the  heart.  And  herein 
was  one  of  the  profoundest  surprises  of  my  visit, 
namely,  that,  in  coming  from  the  Xew  World  to  the 
Old,  from  a  people  the  most  recently  out  of  the 
woods  of  any,  to  one  of  the  ripest  and  venerablest 
of  the  European  nationalities,  I  should  find  a  race 
more  simple,  youthful,  and  less  sophisticated  than 
the  one  I  had  left  behind  me.  Yet  this  was  my 
impression.  We  have  lost  immensely  in  some 
things,  and  what  we  have  gained  is  not  yet  so  obvi 
ous  or  so  definable.  We  have  lost  in  reverence,  in 
homeliness,  in  heart  and  conscience,  —  in  virtue, 
using  the  word  in  its  proper  sense.  To  some,  the 
difference  which  I  note  may  appear  a  difference  in 
favor  of  the  greater  'cuteness,  wideawakeness,  and 
enterprise  of  the  American,  but  is  simply  a  differ 
ence  expressive  of  our  greater  forwardness.  We  are 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  175 

a  forward  people,  and  the  god  we  worship  is  Smart 
ness.  In  one  of  the  worst  tendencies  of  the  age, 
namely,  an  impudent,  superficial,  journalistic  intel 
lectuality  and  glibness,  America,  in  her  polite  and 
literary  circles,  no  doubt  leads  all  other  nations. 
English  books  and  newspapers  show  more  homely 
veracity,  more  singleness  of  purpose,  in  short  more 
character,  than  ours.  The  great  charm  of  such  a 
man  as  Darwin,  for  instance,  is  his  simple  manli 
ness  and  transparent  good  faith,  and  the  absence  in 
him  of  that  finical,  self-complacent  smartness  which 
is  the  bane  of  our  literature. 

The  poet  Clough  thought  the  New  England  man 
more  simple  than  the  man  of  Old  England.  Haw 
thorne,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  reluctant  to  ad 
mit  that  the  English  were  a  "franker  and  simpler 
people,  from  peer  to  peasant, "  than  we  are ;  and  that 
they  had  not  yet  wandered  so  far  from  that  "  healthful 
and  primitive  simplicity  in  which  man  was  created  " 
as  have  their  descendants  in  America.  My  own 
impression  accords  with  Hawthorne's.  We  are  a 
more  alert  and  curious  people,  but  not  so  simple,  — 
not  so  easily  angered,  nor  so  easily  amused.  We 
have  partaken  more  largely  of  the  fruit  of  the  for 
bidden  tree.  The  English  have  more  of  the  stay- 
at-home  virtues,  which,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
no  doubt  pay  pretty  well  for  by  their  more  insular 
tendencies. 

The  youths  and  maidens  seemed  more  simple,  with 
their  softer  and  less  intellectual  faces.  When  I  re 
turned  from  Paris,  the  only  person  in  the  second-class 


176  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

compartments  of  the  car  with  me,  for  a  long  distance, 
was  an  English  youth  eighteen  or  twenty  years  old, 
returning  home  to  London  after  an  absence  of  nearly 
a  year,  which  he  had  spent  as  waiter  in  a  Parisian 
hotel.  He  was  barn  in  London  and  had  spent  nearly 
his  whole  life  there,  where  his  mother,  a  widow, 
then  lived.  He  talked  very  freely  with  me,  and 
told  me  his  troubles,  and  plans,  and  hopes,  as  if 
we  had  long  known  each  other.  What  especially 
struck  me  in  the  youth  was  a  kind  of  sweetness  and 
innocence  —  perhaps  what  some  would  call  "  green 
ness  "  —  that  at  home  I  had  associated  only  with 
country  boys,  and  not  even  with  them  latterly. 
The  smartness  and  knowingness  and  a  certain  hard 
ness  or  keenness  of  our  city  youths,  —  there  was  no 
trace  of  it  at  all  in  this  young  Cockney.  But  he 
liked  American  travelers  better  than  those  from  his 
own  country.  They  were  more  friendly  and  com 
municative,  —  were  not  so  afraid  to  speak  to  "a 
fellow,"  and  at  the  hotel  were  more  easily  pleased. 

The  American  is  certainly  not  the  grumbler  the 
Englishman  is;  he  is  more  cosmopolitan  and  concil 
iatory.  The  Englishman  will  not  adapt  himself  to 
his  surroundings ;  he  is  not  the  least  bit  an  imitative 
animal;  he  will  be  nothing  but  an  Englishman,  and 
is  out  of  place  —  an  anomaly  —  in  any  country  but 
his  own.  To  understand  him,  you  must  see  him  at 
home  in  the  British  island  where  he  grew,  where 
he  belongs,  where  he  has  expressed  himself  and  jus 
tified  himself,  and  his  interior,  unconscious  charac 
teristics  are  revealed.  There  he  is  quite  a  different 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  177 

creature  from  what  he  is  abroad.  There  he  is 
"sweet,"  but  he  sours  the  moment  he  steps  off  the 
island.  In  this  country  he  is  too  generally  arro 
gant,  fault-finding,  and  supercilious.  The  very 
traits  of  loudness,  sharpness,  and  unleavenedness, 
which  I  complain  of  in  our  national  manners,  he 
very  frequently  exemplifies  in  an  exaggerated  form. 

The  Scotch  or  German  element  no  doubt  fuses 
and  mixes  with  ours  much  more  readily  than  the 
purely  British. 

The  traveler  feels  the  past  in  England  as  of 
course  he  cannot  feel  it  here;  and,  along  with  im 
pressions  of  the  present,  one  gets  the  flavor  and  in 
fluence  of  earlier,  simpler  times,  which,  no  doubt,  is 
a  potent  charm,  and  one  source  of  the  "rose-color" 
which  some  readers  have  found  in  my  sketches,  as 
the  absence  of  it  is  one  cause  of  the  raw,  acrid,  un 
lovely  character  of  much  there  is  in  this  country. 
If  the  English  are  the  old  wine,  we  are  the  new. 
We  are  not  yet  thoroughly  leavened  as  a  people,  nor 
have  we  more  than  begun  to  transmute  and  human 
ize  our  surroundings;  and,  as  the  digestive  and  as 
similative  powers  of  the  American  are  clearly  less 
than  those  of  the  Englishman,  to  say  nothing  of  our 
harsher,  more  violent  climate,  I  have  no  idea  that 
ours  can  ever  become  the  mellow  land  that  Brit 
ain  is. 

As  for  the  charge  of  brutality  that  is  often  brought 
against  the  English,  and  which  is  so  successfully 
depicted  by  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  there  is  doubt 
less  good  ground  for  it,  though  I  actually  saw  very 


178  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

little  of  it  during  five  weeks'  residence  in  London, 
and  I  poked  about  into  all  the  dens  and  corners  I 
could  find,  and  perambulated  the  streets  at  nearly 
all  hours  of  the  night  and  day.  Yet  I  am  persuaded 
there  is  a  kind  of  brutality  among  the  lower  orders 
in  England  that  does  not  exist  in  the  same  measure 
in  this  country, —  an  ignorant  animal  coarseness,  an 
insensibility,  which  gives  rise  to  wife-beating  and 
kindred  offenses.  But  the  brutality  of  ignorance 
and  stolidity  is  not  the  worst  form  of  the  evil.  It 
is  good  material  to  make  something  better  of.  It 
is  an  excess  and  not  a  perversion.  It  is  not  man 
fallen,  but  man  undeveloped.  Beware,  rather,  that 
refined,  subsidized  brutality;  that  thin,  depleted, 
moral  consciousness ;  or  that  contemptuous,  cankerous, 
euphemistic  brutality,  of  which,  I  believe,  we  can 
show  vastly  more  samples  than  Great  Britain.  In 
deed,  I  believe,  for  the  most  part,  that  the  brutality 
of  the  English  people  is  only  the  excess  and  plethora 
of  that  healthful,  muscular  robustness  and  full-blood- 
edness  for  which  the  nation  has  always  been  famous, 
and  which  it  should  prize  beyond  almost  anything 
else.  But  for  our  brutality,  our  recklessness  of  life 
and  property,  the  brazen  ruffianism  in  our  great 
cities,  the  hellish  greed  and  robbery  and  plunder  in 
high  places,  I  should  have  to  look  a  long  time  to 
find  so  plausible  an  excuse. 

[But  I  notice  with  pleasure  that  English  travelers 
are  beginning  to  find  more  to  admire  than  to  con 
demn  in  this  country,  and  that  they  accredit  us 
with  some  virtues  they  do  not  find  at  home  in  the 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  179 

same  measure.  They  are  charmed  with  the  inde 
pendence,  the  self-respect,  the  good- nature,  and  the 
obliging  dispositions  shown  by  the  mass  of  our 
people;  while  American  travelers  seem  to  be  more 
and  more  ready  to  acknowledge  the  charm  and  the 
substantial  qualities  of  the  mother  country.  It  is  a 
good  omen.  One  principal  source  of  the  pleasure 
which  each  takes  in  the  other  is  no  doubt  to  be  found 
in  the  novelty  of  the  impressions.  It  is  like  a 
change  of  cookery.  The  flavor  of  the  dish  is  fresh 
and  uncloying  to  each.  The  English  probably  tire 
of  their  own  snobbishness  and  flunkeyism,  and  we 
of  our  own  smartness  and  puppyism.  After  the 
American  has  got  done  bragging  about  his  independ 
ence,  and  his  "free  and  equal"  prerogatives,  he 
begins  to  see  how  these  things  run  into  impertinence 
and  forwardness;  and  the  Englishman,  in  visiting 
us,  escapes  from  his  social  bonds  and  prejudices,  to 
see  for  a  moment  how  absurd  they  all  are.] 

A  London  crowd  I  thought  the  most  normal  and 
unsophisticated  I  had  ever  seen,  with  the  least  ad 
mixture  of  rowdyism  and  ruffianism.  Xo  doubt  it 
is  there,  but  this  scum  is  not  upon  the  surface,  as 
with  us.  I  went  about  very  freely  in  the  hundred 
and  one  places  of  amusement  where  the  average 
working  classes  assemble,  with  their  wives  and  daugh 
ters  and  sweethearts,  and  smoke  villainous  cigars 
and  drink  ale  and  stout.  There  was  to  me  some 
thing  notably  fresh  and  canny  about  them,  as  if  they 
had  only  yesterday  ceased  to  be  shepherds  and  shep 
herdesses.  They  certainly  were  less  developed  in 


180  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

certain  directions,  or  shall  I  say  depraved,  than 
similar  crowds  in  our  great  cities.  They  are  easily 
pleased,  and  laugh  at  the  simple  and  childlike,  but 
there  is  little  that  hints  of  an  impure  taste,  or  of 
abnormal  appetites.  I  often  smiled  at  the  tameness 
and  simplicity  of  the  amusements,  but  my  sense  of 
fitness,  or  proportion,  or  decency  was  never  once 
outraged.  They  always  stop  short  of  a  certain  point, 
—  the  point  where  wit  degenerates  into  mockery, 
and  liberty  into  license:  nature  is  never  put  to 
shame,  and  will  commonly  bear  much  more.  Espe 
cially  to  the  American  sense  did  their  humorous  and 
comic  strokes,  their  negro-minstrelsy  and  attempts 
at  Yankee  comedy,  seem  in  a  minor  key.  There 
was  not  enough  irreverence  and  slang  and  coarse  rib 
aldry,  in  the  whole  evening's  entertainment,  to  have 
seasoned  one  line  of  some  of  our  most  popular  comic 
poetry.  But  the  music,  and  the  gymnastic,  acro 
batic,  and  other  feats,  were  of  a  very  high  order. 
And  I  will  say  here  that  the  characteristic  flavor  of 
the  humor  and  fun-making  of  the  average  English 
people,  as  it  impressed  my  sense,  is  what  one  gets  in 
Sterne,  —  very  human  and  stomachic,  and  entirely 
free  from  the  contempt  and  superciliousness  of  most 
current  writers.  I  did  not  get  one  whiff  of  Dickens 
anywhere.  Xo  doubt  it  is  there  in  some  form  or 
other,  but  it  is  not  patent,  or  even  appreciable,  to 
the  sense  of  such  an  observer  as  I  am. 

I  was  not  less  pleased  by  the  simple  good-will 
and  bonhomie  that  pervaded  the  crowd.  There  is 
in  all  these  gatherings  an  indiscriminate  mingling  of 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  181 

the  sexes,  a  mingling  without  jar  or  noise  or  rude 
ness  of  any  kind,  and  marked  by  a  mutual  respect 
on  all  sides  that  is  novel  and  refreshing.  Indeed, 
so  uniform  is  the  courtesy,  and  so  human  and  con 
siderate  the  interest,  that  I  was  often  at  a  loss  to 
discriminate  the  wife  or  the  sister  from  the  mistress 
or  the  acquaintance  of  the  hour,  and  had  many 
times  to  check  my  American  curiosity  and  cold, 
criticising  stare.  For  it  was  curious  to  see  young 
men  and  women  from  the  lowest  social  strata  meet 
and  mingle  in  a  public  hall  without  lewdness  or 
badinage,  but  even  with  gentleness  and  considera 
tion.  The  truth  is,  however,  that  the  class  of 
women  known  as  victims  of  the  social  evil  do  not 
sink  within  many  degrees  as  low  in  Europe  as  they 
do  in  this  country,  either  in  their  own  opinion  or 
in  that  of  the  public;  and  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt  that  gatherings  of  the  kind  referred  to,  if  per 
mitted  in  our  great  cities,  would  be  tenfold  more 
scandalous  and  disgraceful  than  they  are  in  London 
or  Paris.  There  is  something  so  reckless  and  des 
perate  in  the  career  of  man  or  woman  in  this  coun 
try,  when  they  begin  to  go  down,  that  the  only  feel 
ing  they  too  often  excite  is  one  of  loathsomeness 
and  disgust.  The  lowest  depth  must  be  reached, 
and  it  is  reached  quickly.  But  in  London  the 
same  characters  seem  to  keep  a  sweet  side  from  cor 
ruption  to  the  last,  and  you  will  see  good  manners 
everywhere. 

We  boast  of  our  deference  to  woman,  but,  if  the 
Old  World  made  her  a  tool,  we  are  fast  making  her 


182  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

a  toy ;  and  the  latter  is  the  more  hopeless  condition. 
But  among  the  better  classes  in  England  I  am  con 
vinced  that  woman  is  regarded  more  as  a  sister  and 
an  equal  than  in  this  country,  and  is  less  subject 
to  insult,  and  to  leering,  brutal  comment,  there  than 
here.  We  are  her  slave  or  her  tyrant;  so  seldom 
her  brother  and  friend.  I  thought  it  a  significant 
fact  that  I  found  no  place  of  amusement  set  apart 
for  the  men;  where  one  sex  went  the  other  went; 
what  was  sauce  for  the  gander  was  sauce  for  the 
goose;  and  the  spirit  that  prevailed  was  soft  and 
human  accordingly.  The  hotels  had  no  "ladies'  en 
trance,"  but  all  passed  in  and  out  the  same  door, 
and  met  and  mingled  commonly  in  the  same  room, 
and  the  place  was  as  much  for  one  as  for  the  other. 
It  Avas  no  more  a  masculine  monopoly  than  it  was  a 
feminine.  Indeed,  in  the  country  towns  and  vil 
lages  the  character  of  the  inns  is  unmistakably  given 
by  woman;  hence  the  sweet,  domestic  atmosphere 
that  pervades  and  fills  them  is  balm  to  the  spirit. 
Even  the  larger  hotels  of  Liverpool  and  London 
have  a  private,  cosy,  home  character  that  is  most  de 
lightful.  On  entering  them,  instead  of  finding  your 
self  in  a  sort  of  public  thoroughfare  or  political  cau 
cus,  amid  crowds  of  men  talking  and  smoking  and 
spitting,  with  stalls  on  either  side  where  cigars  and 
tobacco  and  books  and  papers  are  sold,  you  perceive 
you  are  in  something  like  a  larger  hall  of  a  private 
house,  with  perhaps  a  parlor  and  coffee-room  on  one 
side,  and  the  office,  and  smoking-room,  and  stair 
way  on  the  other.  You  may  leave  your  coat  and 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  183 

hat  on  the  rack  in  the  hall,  and  stand  your  umbrella 
there  also,  with  full  assurance  that  you  will  find 
them  there  when  you  want  them,  if  it  be  the  next 
morning  or  the  next  week.  Instead  of  that  petty 
tyrant  the  hotel  clerk,  a  young  woman  sits  in  the 
office  with  her  sewing  or  other  needlework,  and  qui 
etly  receives  you.  She  gives  you  your  number  on 
a  card,  rings  for  a  chambermaid  to  show  you  to  your 
room,  and  directs  your  luggage  to  be  sent  up;  and 
there  is  something  in  the  look  of  things,  and  the  way 
they  are  done,  that  goes  to  the  right  spot  at  once. 

At  the  hotel  in  London  where  I  stopped,  the 
daughters  of  the  landlord,  three  fresh,  comely  young 
women,  did  the  duties  of  the  office;  and  their  pres 
ence,  so  quiet  and  domestic,  gave  the  prevailing  hue 
and  tone  to  the  whole  house.  I  wonder  how  long 
a  young  woman  could  preserve  her  self-respect  and 
sensibility  in  such  a  position  in  New  York  or  Wash 
ington  ? 

The  English  regard  us  as  a  wonderfully  patient 
people,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  we  put  up 
with  abuses  unknown  elsewhere.  If  we  have  no 
big  tyrant,  we  have  ten  thousand  little  ones,  who 
tread  upon  our  toes  at  every  turn.  The  tyranny 
of  corporations,  and  of  public  servants  of  one  kind 
and  another,  as  the  ticket-man,  the  railroad  conduc 
tor,  or  even  of  the  country  stage-driver,  seem  to  be 
features  peculiar  to  American  democracy.  In  Eng 
land  the  traveler  is  never  snubbed,  or  made  to  feel 
that  it  is  by  somebody's  sufferance  that  he  is  al 
lowed  aboard  or  to  pass  on  his  way. 


184  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

If  you  get  into  an  omnibus  or  a  railroad  or  tram 
way  carriage  in  London,  you  are  sure  of  a  seat.  Not 
another  person  can  get  aboard  after  the  seats  are  all 
full.  Or,  if  you  enter  a  public  hall,  you  know  you 
will  not  be  required  to  stand  up  unless  you  pay  the 
standing-up  price.  There  is  everywhere  that  system, 
and  order,  and  fair  dealing,  which  all  men  love. 
The  science  of  living  has  been  reduced  to  a  fine 
point.  You  pay  a  sixpence  and  get  a  sixpence 
worth  of  whatever  you  buy.  There  are  all  grades 
and  prices,  and  the  robbery  and  extortion  so  current 
at  home  appear  to  be  unknown. 

I  am  not  contending  for  the  superiority  of  every 
thing  English,  but  would  not  disguise  from  myself 
or  my  readers  the  fact  of  the  greater  humanity  and 
consideration  that  prevail  in  the  mother  country. 
Things  here  are  yet  in  the  green,  but  I  trust  there 
is  no  good  reason  to  doubt  that  our  fruit  will  mel 
low  and  ripen  in  time  like  the  rest. 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  185 


III 

A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE 

IN  coming  over  to  France,  I  noticed  that  the 
chalk-hills,  which  were  stopped  so  ahruptly  by 
the  sea  on  the  British  side  of  the  Channel,  began 
again  on  the  French  side,  only  they  had  lost  their 
smooth,  pastoral  character,  and  were  more  broken 
and  rocky,  and  that  they  continued  all  the  way  to 
Paris,  walling  in  the  Seine,  and  giving  the  prevail 
ing  tone  and  hue  to  the  country,  —  scrape  away  the 
green  and  brown  epidermis  of  the  hills  anywhere, 
and  out  shine  their  white  framework,  —  and  that 
Paris  itself  was  built  of  stone  evidently  quarried 
from  this  formation,  —  a  light,  cream-colored  stone, 
so  soft  that  rifle-bullets  bury  themselves  in  it  nearly 
their  own  depth,  thus  pitting  some  of  the  more  ex 
posed  fronts  during  the  recent  strife  in  a  very  notice 
able  manner,  and  which,  in  building,  is  put  up  in 
the  rough,  all  the  carving,  sculpturing,  and  finishing 
being  done  after  the  blocks  are  in  position  in  the 
wall. 

Disregarding  the  counsel  of  friends,  I  braved  the 
Channel  at  one  of  its  wider  points,  taking  the  vixen 
by  the  waist  instead  of  by  the  neck,  and  found  her 
as  placid  as  a  lake,  as  I  did  also  on  my  return  a 
week  later. 


186  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

It  was  a  bright  October  morning  as  we  steamed 
into  the  little  harbor  at  Dieppe,  and  the  first  scene 
that  met  my  eye  was,  I  suppose,  a  characteristic 
one,  —  four  or  five  old  men  and  women  towing  a 
vessel  into  a  dock.  They  bent  beneath  the  rope 
that  passed  from  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  tugged 
away  doggedly  at  it,  the  women  apparently  more 
than  able  to  do  their  part.  There  is  no  equalizer 
of  the  sexes  like  poverty  and  misery,  and  then  it 
very  often  happens  that  the  gray  mare  proves  the 
better  horse.  Throughout  the  agricultural  regions, 
as  we  passed  along,  the  men  apparently  all  wore 
petticoats;  at  least,  the  petticoats  were  the  most  ac 
tive  and  prominent  in  the  field  occupations.  Their 
wearers  were  digging  potatoes,  pulling  beets,  follow 
ing  the  harrow  (in  one  instance  a  thorn-bush  drawn 
by  a  cow),  and  stirring  the  wet,  new-mown  grass.  I 
believe  the  pantaloons  were  doing  the  mowing.  But 
I  looked  in  vain  for  any  Maud  Mullers  in  the  mead 
ows,  and  have  concluded  that  these  can  only  be 
found  in  Kew  England  hay-fields!  And  herein  is 
one  of  the  first  surprises  that  awaits  one  on  visiting 
the  Old  World  countries,  —  the  absence  of  graceful, 
girlish  figures,  and  bright  girlish  faces,  among  the 
peasantry  or  rural  population.  In  France  I  certainly 
expected  to  see  female  beauty  everywhere,  but  did 
not  get  one  gleam  all  that  sunny  day  till  I  got  to 
Paris.  Is  it  a  plant  that  only  flourishes  in  cities 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  or  do  all  the  pretty 
girls,  as  soon  as  they  are  grown,  pack  their  trunks, 
and  leave  for  the  gay  metropolis  1 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  187 

At  Dieppe  I  first  saw  the  wooden  shoe,  and  heard 
its  dry,  senseless  clatter  upon  the  pavement.  How 
suggestive  of  the  cramped  and  inflexible  conditions 
with  which  human  nature  has  borne  so  long  in  these 
lands ! 

A  small  paved  square  near  the  wharf  was  the 
scene  of  an  early  market,  and  afforded  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  neatness  and  good  taste  that  char 
acterize  nearly  everything  in  France.  Twenty  or 
thirty  peasant  women,  coarse  and  masculine,  but 
very  tidy,  with  their  snow-white  caps  and  short 
petticoats,  and  perhaps  half  as  many  men,  were 
chattering  and  chaffering  over  little  heaps  of  fresh 
country  produce.  The  onions  and  potatoes  and 
cauliflowers,  etc.,  were  prettily  arranged  on  the 
clean  pavement,  or  on  white  linen  cloths,  and  the 
scene  was  altogether  animated  and  agreeable. 

La  belle  France  is  the  woman's  country  clearly, 
and  it  seems  a  mistake  or  an  anomaly  that  woman 
is  not  at  the  top  and  leading  in  all  departments, 
compelling  the  other  sex  to  play  second  fiddle,  as 
she  so  frequently  has  done  for  a  brief  time  in  iso 
lated  cases  in  the  past;  not  that  the  man  is  effemi 
nate,  but  that  the  woman  seems  so  nearly  his  match 
and  equal,  and  even  so  often  proves  his  superior. 
In  no  other  nation,  during  times  of  popular  excite 
ment  and  insurrection  or  revolution,  do  women 
emerge  so  conspicuously,  often  in  the  front  ranks, 
the  most  furious  and  ungovernable  of  any.  I  think 
even  a  female  conscription  might  be  advisable  in  the 
present  condition  of  France,  if  I  may  judge  of  her 


188  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

soldiers  from  the  specimens  I  saw.  Small,  spirit 
less,  inferior-looking  men  all  of  them.  They  were 
like  Number  Three  mackerel  or  the  last  run  of  shad, 
as  doubtless  they  were,  —  the  last  pickings  and  re- 
siftings  of  the  population. 

I  don't  know  how  far  it  may  be  a  national  cus 
tom,  but  I  observed  that  the  women  of  the  humbler 
classes,  in  meeting  or  parting  with  friends  at  the 
stations,  saluted  each  other  on  both  cheeks,  never 
upon  the  mouth,  as  our  dear  creatures  do,  and  I 
commended  their  good  taste,  though  I  certainly  ap 
prove  the  American  custom,  too. 

Among  the  male  population  I  was  struck  with 
the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  Louis  Napoleon  type 
of  face.  "Has  this  man,"  I  said,  "succeeded  in  im 
pressing  himself  even  upon  the  physiognomy  of  the 
people  ?  Has  he  taken  such  a  hold  of  their  imagi 
nations  that  they  have  grown  to  look  like  him  ? " 
The  guard  that  took  our  train  down  to  Paris  might 
easily  play  the  double  to  the  ex-emperor;  and  many 
times  in  Paris  and  among  different  classes  I  saw  the 
same  countenance. 

Coming  from  England,  the  traveling  seems  very 
slow  in  this  part  of  France,  taking  eight  or  nine 
hours  to  go  from  Dieppe  to  Paris,  with  an  hour's 
delay  at  Rouen.  The  valley  of  the  Seine,  which 
the  road  follows  or  skirts  more  than  half  the  way, 
is  very  winding,  with  immense  flats  or  plains  shut 
in  by  a  Avail  of  steep,  uniform  hills,  and,  in  the 
progress  of  the  journey,  is  from  time  to  time  laid 
open  to  the  traveler  in  a  way  that  is  full  of  novelty 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  189 

and  surprise.  The  day  was  bright  and  lovely,  and 
I  found  my  eyes  running  riot  the  same  as  they  had 
done  during  my  first  ride  on  British  soil.  The  con 
trast  between  the  two  countries  is  quite  marked, 
France  in  this  region  being  much  more  broken  and 
picturesque,  with  some  waste  or  sterile  land,  —  a 
thing  I  did  not  see  at  all  in  England.  Had  I 
awoke  from  a  long  sleep  just  before  reaching  Paris, 
I  should  have  guessed  I  was  riding  through  Mary 
land,  and  should  soon  see  the  dome  of  the  Capitol 
at  Washington  rising  above  the  trees.  So  much 
wild  and  bushy  or  barren  and  half-cultivated  land, 
almost  under  the  walls  of  the  French  capital,  was  a 
surprise. 

Then  there  are  few  or  none  of  those  immense 
home-parks  which  one  sees  in  England,  the  land 
being  mostly  held  by  a  great  number  of  small 
proprietors,  and  cultivated  in  strips,  or  long,  narrow 
parallelograms,  making  the  landscape  look  like 
many-colored  patchwork.  Everywhere  along  the 
Seine,  stretching  over  the  flats,  or  tilted  up  against 
the  sides  of  the  hills,  in  some  places  seeming  almost 
to  stand  on  end,  were  these  acre  or  half-acre  rectan 
gular  farms,  without  any  dividing  lines  or  fences, 
and  of  a  great  variety  of  shades  and  colors,  accord 
ing  to  the  crop  and  the  tillage. 

I  was  glad  to  see  my  old  friend,  the  beech-tree, 
all  along  the  route.  His  bole  wore  the  same  gray 
and  patched  appearance  it  does  at  home,  and  no 
doubt  Thoreau  would  have  found  his  instep  even 
fairer ;  for  the  beech  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  is  a 


190  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

more  fluent  and  graceful  tree  than  the  American  spe 
cies,  resembling,  in  its  branchings  and  general  form, 
our  elm,  though  never  developing  such  an  immense 
green  dome  as  our  elm  when  standing  alone,  and  I 
saw  no  European  tree  that  does.  The  European  elm 
is  not  unlike  our  beech  in  form  and  outline. 

Going  from  London  to  Paris  is,  in  some  respects, 
like  getting  out  of  the  chimney  on  to  the  housetop, 
—  the  latter  city  is,  by  contrast,  so  light  and  airy, 
and  so  American  in  its  roominess.  I  had  come  to 
Paris  for  my  dessert  after  my  feast  of  London 
joints,  and  I  suspect  I  was  a  little  dainty  in  that 
most  dainty  of  cities.  In  fact,  I  had  become  quite 
sated  with  sight-seeing,  and  the  prospect  of  having 
to  go  on  and  "  do  "  the  rest  of  Europe  after  the  usual 
manner  of  tourists,  and  as  my  companions  did,  would 
have  been  quite  appalling.  Said  companions  steered 
off  like  a  pack  of  foxhounds  in  full  blast.  The 
game  they  were  in  quest  of  led  them  a  wild  chase 
up  the  Rhine,  off  through  Germany  and  Italy,  tak 
ing  a  turn  back  through  Switzerland,  giving  them 
no  rest,  and  apparently  eluding  them  at  last.  I  had 
felt  obliged  to  cut  loose  from  them  at  the  outset,  my 
capacity  to  digest  kingdoms  and  empires  at  short 
notice  being  far  below  that  of  the  average  of  my 
countrymen.  My  interest  and  delight  had  been  too 
intense  at  the  outset;  I  had  partaken  too  heartily  of 
the  first  courses;  and  now,  where  other  travelers  be 
gin  to  warm  to  the  subject,  and  to  have  the  keenest 
relish,  I  began  to  wish  the  whole  thing  well  through 
with.  So  that  Paris  was  no  paradise  to  one  Ameri- 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  191 

can  at  least.  Yet  the  mere  change  of  air  and  sky, 
and  the  escape  from  that  sooty,  all-pervasive,  chim 
ney-flue  smell  of  London,  was  so  sudden  and  com 
plete,  that  the  first  hour  of  Paris  was  like  a  refresh 
ing  bath,  and  gave  rise  to  satisfaction  in  which 
every  pore  of  the  skin  participated.  My  room  at 
the  hotel  was  a  gem  of  neatness  and  order,  and  the 
bed  a  marvel  of  art,  comfort,  and  ease,  three  feet 
deep  at  least. 

Then  the  uniform  imperial  grace  and  eclat  of  the 
city  was  a  new  experience.  Here  was  the  city  of 
cities,  the  capital  of  taste  and  fashion,  the  pride  and 
flower  of  a  great  race  and  a  great  history,  the  city 
of  kings  and  emperors,  and  of  a  people  which,  after 
all,  loves  kings  and  emperors,  and  will  not  long, 
I  fear,  be  happy  without  them,  —  a  gregarious,  ur 
bane  people,  a  people  of  genius  and  destiny,  whose 
God  is  Art  and  whose  devil  is  Communism.  Lon 
don  has  long  ago  outgrown  itself,  has  spread,  and 
multiplied,  and  accumulated,  without  a  correspond 
ing  inward  expansion  and  unification;  but  in  Paris 
they  have  pulled  down  and  built  larger,  and  the 
spirit  of  centralization  has  had  full  play.  Hence 
the  French  capital  is  superb,  but  soon  grows  monoto 
nous.  See  one  street  and  boulevard,  and  you  have 
seen  it  all.  It  has  the  unity  and  consecutiveness 
of  a  thing  deliberately  planned  and  built  to  order, 
from  beginning  to  end.  Its  stone  is  all  from  one 
quarry,  and  its  designs  all  the  work  of  one  architect. 
London  has  infinite  variety,  and  quaintness,  and 
picturesqueness,  and  is  of  all  possible  shades  of  din- 


192  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

giness  and  weather- stains.  It  shows  its  age,  shows 
the  work  of  innumerable  generations,  and  is  more 
an  aggregation,  a  conglomeration,  than  Paris  is. 
Paris  shows  the  citizen,  and  is  modern  and  demo 
cratic  in  its  uniformity.  On  the  whole,  I  liked 
London  best,  because  I  am  so  much  of  a  country 
man,  I  suppose,  and  affect  so  little  the  metropolitan 
spirit.  In  London  there  are  a  few  grand  things  to 
be  seen,  and  the  pulse  of  the  great  city  itself  is  like 
the  throb  of  the  ocean;  but  in  Paris,  owing  either 
to  my  jaded  senses  or  some  other  cause,  I  saw 
nothing  that  was  grand,  but  enough  that  was  beauti 
ful  and  pleasing.  The  more  pretentious  and  elabo 
rate  specimens  of  architecture,  like  the  Palace  of  the 
Tuileries  or  the  Palais  Royal,  are  truly  superb, 
but  they  as  truly  do  not  touch  that  deeper  chord 
whose  awakening  we  call  the  emotion  of  the  sublime. 
But  the  fitness  and  good  taste  everywhere  dis 
played  in  the  French  capital  may  well  offset  any 
considerations  of  this  kind,  and  cannot  fail  to  be 
refreshing  to  a  traveler  of  any  other  land,  —  in  the 
dress  and  manners  of  the  people,  in  the  shops  and 
bazaars  and  show-windows,  in  the  markets,  the 
equipages,  the  furniture,  the  hotels.  It  is  entirely 
a  new  sensation  to  an  American  to  look  into  a  Pari 
sian  theatre,  and  see  the  acting  and  hear  the  music. 
The  chances  are  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  sees  the 
interior  of  a  theatre  that  does  not  have  a  hard, 
business-like,  matter-of-fact  air.  The  auditors  look 
comfortable  and  cosy,  and  quite  at  home,  and  do 
not,  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  in  solid  lines,  make  a 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  193 

dead  set  at  the  play  and  the  music.  The  theatre 
has  warm  hangings,  warm  colors,  cosy  boxes  and 
stalls,  and  is  in  no  sense  the  public,  away-from- 
home  place  we  are  so  familiar  with  in  this  country. 
Again,  one  might  know  it  was  Paris  by  the  charac 
ter  of  the  prints  and  pictures  in  the  shop  windows; 
they  are  so  clever  as  art,  one  becomes  reprehensi- 
bly  indifferent  to  their  license.  Whatever  sins  the 
French  may  be  guilty  of,  they  never  sin  against  art 
and  good  taste  (except  when  in  the  frenzy  of  revo 
lution),  and,  if  Propriety  is  sometimes  obliged  to 
cry  out  "For  shame!"  in  the  French  capital,  she 
must  do  so  with  ill-concealed  admiration,  like  a 
fond  mother  chiding  with  word  and  gesture  while 
she  approves  with  tone  and  look.  It  is  a  foolish 
charge,  often  made,  that  the  French  make  vice  at 
tractive:  they  make  it  provocative  of  laughter;  the 
spark  of  wit  is  always  evolved,  and  what  is  a  better 
antidote  to  this  kind  of  poison  than  mirth? 

They  carry  their  wit  even  into  their  cuisine. 
Every  dish  set  before  you  at  the  table  is  a  picture, 
and  tickles  your  eye  before  it  does  your  palate. 
When  I  ordered  fried  eggs,  they  were  brought  on  a 
snow-white  napkin,  which  was  artistically  folded 
upon  a  piece  of  ornamented  tissue-paper  that  covered 
a  china  plate;  if  I  asked  for  cold  ham,  it  came  in 
flakes,  arrayed  like  great  rose-leaves,  with  a  green 
sprig  or  two  of  parsley  dropped  upon  it,  and  sur 
rounded  by  a  border  of  calves-foot  jelly,  like  a  set 
ting  of  crystals.  The  bread  revealed  new  quali 
ties  in  the  wheat,  it  was  so  sweet  and  nutty;  and 


194  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  fried  potatoes,  with  which  your  beefsteak  cornea 
snowed  under,  are  the  very  flower  of  the  culinary 
art,  and  I  believe  impossible  in  any  other  country. 

Even  the  ruins  are  in  excellent  taste,  and  are  by 
far  the  best-behaved  ruins  I  ever  saw  for  so  recent 
ones.  I  came  near  passing  some  of  the  most  noted, 
during  my  first  walk,  without  observing  them.  The 
main  walls  were  all  standing,  and  the  fronts  were 
as  imposing  as  ever.  No  litter  or  rubbish,  no 
charred  timbers  or  blackened  walls;  only  vacant 
windows  and  wrecked  interiors,  which  do  not  very 
much  mar  the  general  outside  effect. 

My  first  genuine  surprise  was  the  morning  after 
my  arrival,  which,  according  to  my  reckoning,  was 
Sunday;  and  when  I  heard  the  usual  week-day 
sounds,  and,  sallying  forth,  saw  the  usual  week-day 
occupations  going  on,  —  painters  painting,  glaziers 
glazing,  masons  on  their  scaffolds,  etc. ,  and  heavy 
drays  and  market- wagons  going  through  the  streets, 
and  many  shops  and  bazaars  open,  —  I  must  have 
presented  to  a  scrutinizing  beholder  the  air  and 
manner  of  a  man  in  a  dream,  so  absorbed  was  I  in 
running  over  the  events  of  the  week  to  find  where 
the  mistake  had  occurred,  where  I  had  failed  to  turn 
a  leaf,  or  else  had  turned  over  two  leaves  for  one. 
But  each  day  had  a  distinct  record,  and  every  count 
resulted  the  same.  It  must  be  Sunday.  Then  it 
all  dawned  upon  me  that  this  was  Paris,  and  that 
the  Parisians  did  not  have  the  reputation  of  being 
very  strict  Sabbatarians. 

The  French  give  a  touch  of  art  to  whatever  they 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  195 

do.  Even  the  drivers  of  drays  and  carts  and 
trucks  about  the  streets  are  not  content  with  a  plain, 
matter-of-fact  whip,  as  an  English  or  American 
laborer  would  be,  but  it  must  be  a  finely-modeled 
stalk,  with  a  long,  tapering  lash  tipped  with  the  best 
silk  snapper.  Always  the  inevitable  snapper.  I 
doubt  if  there  is  a  whip  in  Paris  without  a  snapper. 
Here  is  where  the  fine  art,  the  rhetoric  of  driving, 
comes  in.  This  converts  a  vulgar,  prosy  "  gad " 
into  a  delicate  instrument,  to  be  wielded  with  pride 
and  skill,  and  never  to  be  literally  applied  to  the 
backs  of  the  animals,  but  to  be  launched  to  the  right 
and  left  into  the  air  with  a  professional  flourish,  and 
a  sharp,  ringing  report.  Crack !  crack !  crack !  all 
day  long  go  these  ten  thousand  whips,  like  the 
boys'  Fourth  of  July  fusillade.  It  was  invariably 
the  first  sound  I  heard  when  I  opened  my  eyes  in 
the  morning,  and  generally  the  last  one  at  night. 
Occasionally  some  belated  drayman  would  come  hur 
rying  along  just  as  I  was  going  to  sleep,  or  some 
early  bird  before  I  was  fully  awake  in  the  morning, 
and  let  off  in  rapid  succession,  in  front  of  my  hotel, 
a  volley  from  the  tip  of  his  lash  that  would  make 
the  street  echo  again,  and  that  might  well  have  been 
the  envy  of  any  ring-master  that  ever  trod  the  tan- 
bark.  Now  and  then,  during  my  ramblings,  I 
would  suddenly  hear  some  master-whip,  perhaps 
that  of  an  old  omnibus-driver,  that  would  crack  like 
a  rifle,  and,  as  it  passed  along,  all  the  lesser  whips, 
all  the  amateur  snappers,  would  strike  up  with  a 
jealous  and  envious  emulation,  making  every  foot- 


196  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

passenger  wink,  and  one  (myself)  at  least  almost  to 
shade  his  eyes  from  the  imaginary  missiles. 

I  record  this  fact  because  it  "points  a  moral  and 
adorns  a  '  tail. '  '  The  French  always  give  this  extra 
touch.  Everything  has  its  silk  snapper.  Are  not 
the  literary  whips  of  Paris  famous  for  their  rhetori 
cal  tips  and  the  sting  there  is  in  them?  What 
French  writer  ever  goaded  his  adversary  with  the 
belly  of  his  lash,  like  the  Germans  and  English, 
when  he  could  blister  him  with  its  silken  end,  and 
the  percussion  of  wit  be  heard  at  every  stroke? 

In  the  shops,  and  windows,  and  public  halls, 
etc.,  this  passion  takes  the  form  of  mirrors,  — mir 
rors,  mirrors  everywhere,  on  the  walls,  in  the  pan 
els,  in  the  cases,  on  the  pillars,  extending,  multi 
plying,  opening  up  vistas  this  way  and  that,  and 
converting  the  smallest  shop,  with  a  solitary  girl 
and  a  solitary  customer,  into  an  immense  enchanted 
bazaar,  across  whose  endless  counters  customers  lean 
and  pretty  girls  display  goods.  The  French  are 
always  before  the  looking-glass,  even  when  they  eat 
and  drink.  I  never  went  into  a  restaurant  without 
seeing  four  or  five  fac-similes  of  myself  approaching 
from  as  many  different  directions,  giving  the  order 
to  the  waiter  and  sitting  down  at  the  table.  Hence 
I  always  had  plenty  of  company  at  dinner,  though 
we  were  none  of  us  very  social,  and  I  was  the  only 
one  who  entered  or  passed  out  at  the  door.  The 
show-windows  are  the  greatest  cheat.  What  an 
expanse,  how  crowded,  and  how  brilliant!  You 
see,  for  instance,  an  immense  array  of  jewelry,  and 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  197 

pause  to  have  a  look.  You  begin  at  the  end  near 
est  you,  and,  after  gazing  a  moment,  take  a  step  to 
run  your  eye  along  the  dazzling  display,  Avhen, 
presto!  the  trays  of  watches  and  diamonds  vanish 
in  a  twinkling,  and  you  find  yourself  looking  into 
the  door,  or  your  delighted  eyes  suddenly  bring  up 
against  a  brick  wall,  disenchanted  so  quickly  that 
you  almost  stagger. 

I  went  into  a  popular  music  and  dancing  hall  one 
night,  and  found  myself  in  a  perfect  enchantment 
of  mirrors.  Not  an  inch  of  wall  was  anywhere 
visible.  I  was  suddenly  caught  up  into  the  seventh 
heaven  of  looking-glasses,  from  which  I  came  down 
with  a  shock  the  moment  I  emerged  into  the  street 
again.  I  observed  that  this  mirror  contagion  had 
broken  out  in  spots  in  London,  and,  in  the  narrow 
and  crowded  condition  of  the  shops  there,  even  this 
illusory  enlargement  would  be  a  relief.  It  might 
not  improve  the  air,  or  add  to  the  available  storage 
capacity  of  the  establishment,  but  it  would  certainly 
give  a  wider  range  to  the  eye. 

The  American  no  sooner  sets  foot  on  the  soil  of 
France  than  he  perceives  he  has  entered  a  nation 
of  drinkers  as  he  has  left  a  nation  of  eaters.  Men 
do  not  live  by  bread  here,  but  by  wine.  Drink, 
drink,  drink  everywhere,  —  along  all  the  boulevards, 
and  streets,  and  quays,  and  byways;  in  the  restau 
rants  and  under  awnings,  and  seated  on  the  open 
sidewalk ;  social  and  convivial  wine-bibbing,  —  not 
hastily  and  in  large  quantities,  but  leisurely  and 
reposingly,  and  with  much  conversation  and  enjoy 
ment. 


198  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

Drink,  drink,  drink,  and,  with  equal  frequency 
and  nearly  as  much  openness,  the  reverse  or  diuretic 
side  of  the  fact.  (How  our  self-consciousness  would 
writhe!  We  should  all  turn  to  stone!)  Indeed, 
the  ceaseless  deglutition  of  mankind  in  this  part  of 
the  world  is  only  equaled  by  the  answering  and 
enormous  activity  of  the  human  male  kidneys.  This 
latter  was  too  astonishing  and  too  public  a  fact  to 
go  unmentioned.  At  Dieppe,  by  the  reeking  tubs 
standing  about,  I  suspected  some  local  distemper; 
but  when  I  got  to  Paris,  and  saw  how  fully  and 
openly  the  wants  of  the  male  citizen  in  this  respect 
were  recognized  by  the  sanitary  and  municipal  regu 
lations,  and  that  the  urinals  were  thicker  than  the 
lamp-posts,  I  concluded  it  must  be  a  national  trait, 
and  at  once  abandoned  the  theory  that  had  begun  to 
take  possession  of  my  mind,  namely,  that  diabetes 
was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  the  decadence  of  France. 
Yet  I  suspect  it  is  no  more  a  peculiarity  of  French 
manners  than  of  European  manners  generally,  and 
in  its  light  I  relished  immensely  the  history  of  a 
well-known  statue  which  stands  in  a  public  square 
in  one  of  the  German  cities.  The  statue  commemo 
rates  the  unblushing  audacity  of  a  peasant  going  to 
market  with  a  goose  under  each  arm,  who  ignored 
even  the  presence  of  the  king,  and  it  is  at  certain 
times  dressed  up  and  made  the  centre  of  holiday 
festivities.  It  is  a  public  fountain,  and  its  living 
streams  of  water  make  it  one  of  the  most  appropri 
ate  and  suggestive  monuments  in  Europe.  I  would 
only  suggest  that  they  canonize  the  Little  Man, 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  199 

and  that  the  Parisians  recognize  a  tutelar  deity  in 
the  goddess  Urea,  who  should  have  an  appropriate 
monument  somewhere  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  ! 

One  of  the  loveliest  features  of  Paris  is  the  Seine. 
I  was  never  tired  of  walking  along  its  course.  Its 
granite  embankments ;  its  numberless  superb  bridges, 
throwing  their  graceful  spans  across  it;  its  clear, 
limpid  water ;  its  paved  bed ;  the  women  washing ; 
the  lively  little  boats;  and  the  many  noble  build 
ings  that  look  down  upon  it,  —  make  it  the  most 
charming  citizen-river  I  ever  beheld.  Rivers  gen 
erally  get  badly  soiled  when  they  come  to  the  city, 
like  some  other  rural  travelers;  but  the  Seine  is  as 
pure  as  a  meadow-brook  wherever  I  saw  it,  though 
I  dare  say  it  does  not  escape  without  some  contami 
nation.  I  believe  it  receives  the  sewerage  discharges 
farther  down,  and  is  no  doubt  turbid  and  pitchy 
enough  there,  like  its  brother,  the  Thames,  which 
comes  into  London  with  the  sky  and  the  clouds  in 
its  bosom,  and  leaves  it  reeking  with  filth  and 
slime. 

After  I  had  tired  of  the  city,  I  took  a  day  to 
visit  St.  Cloud,  and  refresh  myself  by  a  glimpse  of 
the  imperial  park  there,  and  a  little  of  Nature's 
privacy,  if  such  could  be  had,  which  proved  to  be 
the  case,  for  a  more  agreeable  day  I  have  rarely 
passed.  The  park,  toward  which  I  at  once  made 
my  way,  is  an  immense  natural  forest,  sweeping  up 
over  gentle  hills  from  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and 
brought  into  order  and  perspective  by  a  system  of 
carriageways  and  avenues,  which  radiate  from  nu- 


200  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

merous  centres  like  the  boulevards  of  Paris.  At 
these  centres  were  fountains  and  statues,  with  sun 
light  falling  upon  them ;  and,  looking  along  the  cool, 
dusky  avenues,  as  they  opened,  this  way  and  that, 
upon  these  marble  tableaux,  the  effect  was  very 
striking,  and  was  not  at  all  marred  to  my  eye  by 
the  neglect  into  which  the  place  had  evidently 
fallen.  The  woods  were  just  mellowing  into  Octo 
ber;  the  large,  shining  horse-chestnuts  dropped  at 
my  feet  as  I  walked  along;  the  jay  screamed  over 
the  trees ;  and  occasionally  a  red  squirrel  —  larger 
and  softer-looking  than  ours,  not  so  sleek,  nor  so 
noisy  and  vivacious  —  skipped  among  the  branches. 
Soldiers  passed,  here  and  there,  to  and  from  some 
encampment  on  the  farther  side  of  the  park;  and, 
hidden  from  view  somewhere  in  the  forest-glades, 
a  band  of  buglers  filled  the  woods  with  wild  musi 
cal  strains. 

English  royal  parks  and  pleasure  grounds  are 
quite  different.  There  the  prevailing  character  is 
pastoral, — *  immense  stretches  of  lawn,  dotted  with 
the  royal  oak,  and  alive  with  deer.  But  the  French 
man  loves  forests  evidently,  and  nearly  all  his  pleas 
ure  grounds  about  Paris  are  immense  woods.  The 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  forests  of  Yincennes,  of  St. 
Germain,  of  Bondy,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
others,  are  near  at  hand,  and  are  much  prized. 
What  the  animus  of  this  love  may  be  is  not  so 
clear.  It  cannot  be  a  love  of  solitude,  for  the 
French  are  characteristically  a  social  and  gregarious 
people.  It  cannot  be  the  English  poetical  or  Words- 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  201 

worthian  feeling  for  Nature,  because  French  liter 
ature  does  not  show  this  sense  or  this  kind  of 
perception.  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  forest  is 
congenial  to  their  love  of  form  and  their  sharp  per 
ceptions,  but  more  especially  to  that  kind  of  fear  and 
wildness  which  they  at  times  exhibit ;  for  civilization 
has  not  quenched  the  primitive  ardor  and  fierceness 
of  the  Frenchman  yet,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  it  never 
may.  He  is  still  more  than  half  a  wild  man,  and, 
if  turned  loose  in  the  woods,  I  think  would  develop, 
in  tooth  and  nail,  and  in  all  the  savage,  brute  in 
stincts,  more  rapidly  than  the  men  of  any  other 
race,  except  possibly  the  Slavic.  Have  not  his  de 
scendants  in  this  country  —  the  Canadian  French  — 
turned  and  lived  with  the  Indians,  and  taken  to 
wild,  savage  customs  with  more  relish  and  genius 
than  have  any  other  people  ?  How  hairy  and  vehe 
ment  and  pantomimic  he  is!  How  his  eyes  glance 
from  under  his  heavy  brows!  His  type  among  the 
animals  is  the  wolf,  and  one  readily  recalls  how 
largely  the  wolf  figures  in  the  traditions  and  legends 
and  folk-lore  of  Continental  Europe,  and  how  closely 
his  remains  are  associated  with  those  of  man  in  the 
bone-caves  of  the  geologists.  He  has  not  stalked 
through  their  forests  and  fascinated  their  imagina 
tions  so  long  for  nothing.  The  she-wolf  suckled 
other  founders  beside  those  of  Rome.  Especially 
when  I  read  of  the  adventures  of  Russian  and  Polish 
exiles  in  Siberia  —  men  of  aristocratic  lineage  wan 
dering  amid  snow  and  arctic  cold,  sleeping  in  rocks 
or  in  hollow  trees,  and  holding  their  own,  empty- 


202  WINTEE   SUNSHINE 

handed,  against  hunger  and  frost  and  their  fiercei 
brute  embodiments  —  do  I  recognize  a  hardihood 
and  a  ferity  whose  wet-nurse,  ages  back,  may  well 
have  been  this  gray  slut  of  the  woods. 

It  is  this  fierce,  untamable  core  that  gives  the 
point  and  the  splendid  audacity  to  French  literature 
and  art,  —  its  vehemence  and  impatience  of  restraint. 
It  is  the  salt  of  their  speech,  the  nitre  of  their  wit. 
When  morbid,  it  gives  that  rabid  and  epileptic  ten 
dency  which  sometimes  shows  itself  in  Victor  Hugo. 
In  this  great  writer,  however,  it  more  frequently 
takes  the  form  of  an  aboriginal  fierceness  and  hun 
ger  that  glares  and  bristles,  and  is  insatiable  and 
omnivorous. 

And  how  many  times  has  Paris,  that  boudoir  of 
beauty  and  fashion,  proved  to  be  a  wolf's  lair, 
swarming  with  jaws  athirst  for  human  throats!  — 
the  lust  for  blood  and  the  greed  for  plunder,  sleep 
ing,  biding  their  time,  never  extinguished. 

I  do  not  contemn  it.  To  the  natural  historian 
it  is  good.  It  is  a  return  to  first  principles  again 
after  so  much  art,  and  culture,  and  lying,  and  chau- 
vinisme,  and  shows  these  old  civilizations  in  no 
danger  of  becoming  effete  yet.  It  is  like  the  hell 
of  fire  beneath  our  feet,  which  the  geologists  tell 
us  is  the  life  of  the  globe.  Were  it  not  for  it, 
who  would  not  at  times  despair  of  the  French  char 
acter?  As  long  as  this  fiery  core  remains,  I  shall 
believe  France  capable  of  recovering  from  any  disaster 
to  her  arms.  The  "  mortal  ripening  "  of  the  nation 
is  stayed. 


AN   OCTOBEK   ABROAD  203 

The  English  and  Germans,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
saved  by  great  breadth  and  heartiness,  and  a  consti 
tutional  tendency  to  coarseness  of  fibre  which  art 
and  civilization  abate  very  little.  What  is  to  save 
us  in  this  country,  I  wonder,  who  have  not  the 
French  regnancy  and  fire,  nor  the  Teutonic  hearti 
ness  and  vis  inertia,  and  who  are  already  in  danger 
of  refining  or  attenuating  into  a  high-heeled,  short- 
jawed,  genteel  race,  with  more  brains  than  stomach, 
and  more  address  than  character  ? 


204  WINTER  SUNSHINE 


IV 

FROM   LONDON   TO   NEW  YORK 

I  HAD  imagined  that  the  next  best  thing  to  see 
ing  England  would  be  to  see  Scotland;  but,  as 
this  latter  pleasure  was  denied  me,  certainly  the 
next  best  thing  was  seeing  Scotland's  greatest  son. 
Carlyle  has  been  so  constantly  and  perhaps  justly 
represented  as  a  stormy  and  wrathful  person,  brewing 
bitter  denunciation  for  America  and  Americans,  that 
I  cannot  forbear  to  mention  the  sweet  and  genial 
mood  in  which  we  found  him,  — a  gentle  and  affec 
tionate  grandfather,  with  his  delicious  Scotch  brogue 
and  rich,  melodious  talk,  overflowing  with  reminis 
cences  of  his  earlier  life,  of  Scott  and  Goethe  and 
Edinburgh,  and  other  men  and  places  he  had  known. 
Learning  I  was  especially  interested  in  birds,  he 
discoursed  of  the  lark  and  nightingale  and  mavis, 
framing  his  remarks  about  them  in  some  episode  of 
his  personal  experience,  and  investing  their  songs 
with  the  double  charm  of  his  description  and  his 
adventure. 

"It  is  only  geese  who  get  plucked  there,"  said 
my  companion  after  we  had  left,  —  a  man  who  had 
known  Carlyle  intimately  for  many  years;  "silly 
persons  who  have  no  veneration  for  the  great  man, 
and  come  to  convert  him  or  change  his  convictions 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  205 

upon  subjects  to  which  he  has  devoted  a  lifetime 
of  profound  thought  and  meditation.  With  such 
persons  he  has  no  patience." 

Carlyle  had  just  returned  from  Scotland,  where 
he  had  spent  the  summer.  The  Scotch  hills  and 
mountains,  he  said,  had  an  ancient,  mournful  look, 
as  if  the  weight  of  immeasurable  time  had  settled 
down  upon  them.  Their  look  was  in  Ossian,  — his 
spirit  reflected  theirs;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  the  veru/ 
erable  man  before  me,  and  noted  his  homely  and 
rugged  yet  profound  and  melancholy  expression,  I 
knew  that  their  look  was  upon  him  also,  and  that  a 
greater  than  Ossian  had  been  nursed  amid  those  lonely 
hills.  Few  men  in  literature  have  felt  the  burden 
of  the  world,  the  weight  of  the  inexorable  conscience, 
as  has  Carlyle,  or  drawn  such  fresh  inspiration  from 
that  source.  However  we  may  differ  from  him 
(and  almost  in  self-defense  one  must  differ  from  a 
man  of  such  intense  and  overweening  personality), 
it  must  yet  be  admitted  that  he  habitually  speaks  out 
of  that  primitive  silence  and  solitude  in  which  only 
the  heroic  soul  dwells.  Certainly  not  in  contempo 
rary  British  literature  is  there  another  writer  whose 
bowstring  has  such  a  twang. 

I  left  London  in  the  early  part  of  November,  and 
turned  my  face  westward,  going  leisurely  through 
England  and  Wales,  and  stringing  upon  my  thread 
a  few  of  the  famous  places,  as  Oxford,  Stratford, 
Warwick,  Birmingham,  Chester,  and  taking  a  last 
look  of  the  benign  land.  The  weather  was  fair;  I 
was  yoked  to  no  companion,  and  was  apparently  the 


206  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

only  tourist  on  that  route.  The  field  occupations 
drew  my  eye  as  usual.  They  were  very  simple,  and 
consisted  mainly  of  the  gathering  of  root  crops.  I 
saw  no  building  of  fences,  or  of  houses  or  barns, 
and  no  draining  or  improving  of  any  kind  worth 
mentioning,  these  things  having  all  been  done  long 
ago.  Speaking  of  barns  reminds  me  that  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  seen  a  building  of  this  kind  while 
in  England,  much  less  a  group  or  cluster  of  them  as 
at  home;  hay  and  grain  being  always  stacked,  and 
the  mildness  of  the  climate  rendering  a  protection 
of  this  kind  unnecessary  for  the  cattle  and  sheep. 
In  contrast,  America  may  be  called  the  country  of 
barns  and  outbuildings :  — 

"  Thou  lucky  Mistress  of  the  tranquil  barns," 

as  Walt  Whitman  apostrophizes  the  Union. 

I  missed  also  many  familiar  features  in  the  au 
tumn  fields,  —  those  given  to  our  landscape  by  In 
dian  corn,  for  instance,  the  tent-like  stouts,  the 
shucks,  the  rustling  blades,  the  ripe  pumpkins 
strewing  the  field;  for,  notwithstanding  England  is 
such  a  garden,  our  corn  does  not  flourish  there.  I 
saw  no  buckwheat  either,  the  red  stubble  and  little 
squat  figures  of  the  upright  sheaves  of  which  are  so 
noticeable  in  our  farming  districts  at  this  season. 
Neither  did  I  see  any  gathering  of  apples,  or  orchards 
from  which  to  gather  them.  "As  sure  as  there  are 
apples  in  Herefordshire "  seems  to  be  a  proverb  in 
England ;  yet  it  is  very  certain  that  the  orchard  is  not 
the  institution  anywhere  in  Britain  that  it  is  in  this 
country,  or  so  prominent  a  feature  in  the  landscape. 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  207 

The  native  apples  are  inferior  in  size  and  quality, 
and  are  sold  by  the  pound.  Pears  were  more  abun 
dant  at  the  fruit  stands,  and  were  of  superior  excel 
lence  and  very  cheap. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  set  down  to  any  egotism  of 
my  own,  but  rather  to  the  effect  upon  an  ardent 
pilgrim  of  the  associations  of  the  place  and  its  re 
nown  in  literature,  that  all  my  experience  at  Strat 
ford  seems  worthy  of  recording,  and  to  be  invested 
with  a  sort  of  poetical  interest,  — even  the  fact  that 
I  walked  up  from  the  station  with  a  handsome 
young  countrywoman  who  had  chanced  to  occupy  a 
seat  in  the  same  compartment  of  the  car  with  me 
from  Warwick,  and  who,  learning  the  nature  of  my 
visit,  volunteered  to  show  me  the  Red  Horse  Inn, 
as  her  course  led  her  that  way.  We  walked  mostly 
in  the  middle  of  the  street,  with  our  umbrellas 
hoisted,  for  it  was  raining  slightly,  while  a  boy 
whom  we  found  lying  in  wait  for  such  a  chance 
trudged  along  in  advance  of  us  with  my  luggage. 

At  the  Eed  Horse  the  pilgrim  is  in  no  danger  of 
having  the  charm  and  the  poetical  atmosphere  with 
which  he  has  surrounded  himself  dispelled,  but 
rather  enhanced  and  deepened,  especially  if  he  has 
the  luck  I  had,  to  find  few  other  guests,  and  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  those  simple,  strawberry- 
like  English  housemaids,  who  gives  him  a  cosy, 
snug  little  parlor  all  to  himself,  as  was  the  luck  of 
Irving  also;  who  answers  his  every  summons,  and 
looks  into  his  eyes  with  the  simplicity  and  direct 
ness  of  a  child;  who  could  step  from  no  page  but 


208  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

that  of  Scott  or  the  divine  William  himself;  who 
puts  the  "  coals  "  on  your  grate  with  her  own  hands, 
and,  when  you  ask  for  a  lunch,  spreads  the  cloth  on 
one  end  of  the  table  while  you  sit  reading  or  writing 
at  the  other,  and  places  before  you  a  whole  haunch 
of  delicious  cold  mutton,  with  bread  and  home-brewed 
ale,  and  requests  you  to  help  yourself;  who,  when 
bedtime  arrives,  lights  you  up  to  a  clean,  sweet 
chamber,  with  a  high-canopied  bed  hung  with  snow- 
white  curtains;  who  calls  you  in  the  morning,  and 
makes  ready  your  breakfast  while  you  sit  with  your 
feet  on  the  fender  before  the  blazing  grate;  and  to 
whom  you  pay  your  reckoning  on  leaving,  having 
escaped  entirely  all  the  barrenness  and  publicity  of 
hotel  life,  and  had  all  the  privacy  and  quiet  of 
home  without  any  of  its  cares  or  interruptions. 
And  this,  let  me  say  here,  is  the  great  charm  of  the 
characteristic  English  inn;  it  has  a  domestic,  home 
like  air.  "  Taking  mine  ease  at  mine  inn "  has  a 
real  significance  in  England.  You  can  take  your 
ease  and  more;  you  can  take  real  solid  comfort.  In 
the  first  place,  there  is  no  barroom,  and  conse 
quently  no  loafers  or  pimps,  or  fumes  of  tobacco  or 
whiskey;  then  there  is  no  landlord  or  proprietor  or 
hotel  clerk  to  lord  it  over  you.  The  host,  if  there 
is  such  a  person,  has  a  way  of  keeping  himself  in 
the  background,  or  absolutely  out  of  sight,  that  is 
entirely  admirable.  You  are  monarch  of  all  you 
survey.  You  are  not  made  to  feel  that  it  is  in 
some  one  else's  house  you  are  stopping,  and  that  you 
must  court  the  master  for  his  favor.  It  is  your 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  209 

house,  you  are  the  master,   and  you  have  only  to 
enjoy  your  own. 

In  the  gray,  misty  afternoon,  I  walked  out  over 
the  Avon,  like  all  English  streams  full  to  its  grassy 
brim,  and  its  current  betrayed  only  by  a  floating 
leaf  or  feather,  and  along  English  fields  and  roads, 
and  noted  the  familiar  sights  and  sounds  and  smells 
of  autumn.  The  spire  of  the  church  where  Shake 
speare  lies  buried  shot  up  stately  and  tall  from  the 
banks  of  the  Avon,  a  little  removed  from  the  vil 
lage;  and  the  church  itself,  more  like  a  cathedral 
in  size  and  beauty,  was  also  visible  above  the  trees. 
Thitherward  I  soon  bent  my  steps,  and  while  I  was 
lingering  among  the  graves, *  reading  the  names  and 
dates  so  many  centuries  old,  and  surveying  the  gray 
and  weather-worn  exterior  of  the  church,  the  slow 
tolling  of  the  bell  announced  a  funeral.  Upon  such 
a  stage,  and  amid  such  surroundings,  with  all  this 
past  for  a  background,  the  shadowy  figure  of  the 
peerless  bard  towering  over  all,  the  incident  of  the 
moment  had  a  strange  interest  to  me,  and  I  looked 
about  for  the  funeral  cortege.  Presently  a  group  of 
three  or  four  figures  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
avenue  of  limes,  the  foremost  of  them  a  woman, 
bearing  an  infant's  coffin  under  her  arm,  wrapped 
in  a  white  sheet.  The  clerk  and  sexton,  with  their 
robes  on,  went  out  to  meet  them,  and  conducted 
them  into  the  church,  where  the  service  proper  to 

l  In  England  the  church  always  stands  in  the  midst  of  the 
graveyard,  and  hence  can  be  approached  only  on  foot.  People, 
it  seems,  never  go  to  church  in  carriages  or  wagons,  but  on  foot, 
along  paths  and  lanes. 


210  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

such  occasions  was  read,  after  which  the  coffin  was 
taken  out  as  it  was  brought  in,  and  lowered  into  the 
grave.  It  was  the  smallest  funeral  I  ever  saw,  and 
my  efforts  to  play  the  part  of  a  sympathizing  public 
by  hovering  in  the  background,  I  fear,  was  only  an 
intrusion  after  all. 

Having  loitered  to  my  heart's  content  amid  the 
stillness  of  the  old  church,  and  paced  to  and  fro 
above  the  illustrious  dead,  I  set  out,  with  the  sun 
about  an  hour  high,  to  see  the  house  of  Anne  Hatha 
way  at  Shottery,  shunning  the  highway  and  follow 
ing  a  path  that  followed  hedge-rows,  crossed  mead 
ows  and  pastures,  skirted  turnip  fields  and  cabbage 
patches,  to  a  quaint  gathering  of  low  thatched  houses, 
—  a  little  village  of  farmers  and  laborers,  about  a 
mile  from  Stratford.  At  the  gate  in  front  of  the 
house  a  boy  was  hitching  a  little  gray  donkey,  al 
most  hidden  beneath  two  immense  panniers  filled 
with  coarse  hay. 

"Whose  house  is  this?"  inquired  I,  not  being 
quite  able  to  make  out  the  name. 

"Hann'  Ataway's  'ouse,"  said  he. 

So  I  took  a  good  look  at  Anne's  house,  —  a 
homely,  human-looking  habitation,  with  its  old  oak 
beams  and  thatched  roof,  —  but  did  not  go  in,  as 
Mrs.  Baker,  who  was  eying  me  from  the  door,  evi 
dently  hoped  I  would,  but  chose  rather  to  walk  past 
it  and  up  the  slight  rise  of  ground  beyond,  where  I 
paused  and  looked  out  over  the  fields,  just  lit  up 
by  the  setting  sun.  Returning,  I  stepped  into  the 
Shakespeare  Tavern,  a  little,  homely  wayside  place 


AN    OCTOBER   ABROAD  211 

on  a  street,  or  more  like  a  path,  apart  from  the 
main  road,  and  the  good  dame  brought  me  some 
"home-brewed,"  which  I  drank  sitting  by  a  rude 
table  on  a  rude  bench  in  a  small,  low  room,  with  a 
stone  floor  and  an  immense  chimney.  The  coals 
burned  cheerily,  and  the  crane  and  hooks  in  the 
fireplace  called  up  visions  of  my  earliest  childhood. 
Apparently  the  house  and  the  surroundings,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  the  place  and  the  ways  of  the 
people,  were  what  they  were  three  hundred  years 
ago.  It  was  all  sweet  and  good,  and  I  enjoyed  it 
hugely,  and  was  much  refreshed. 

Crossing  the  fields  in  the  gloaming,  I  came  up 
with  some  children,  each  with  a  tin  bucket  of  milk, 
threading  their  way  toward  Stratford.  The  little 
girl,  a  child  ten  years  old,  having  a  larger  bucket 
than  the  rest,  was  obliged  to  set  down  her  burden 
every  few  rods  and  rest;  so  I  lent  her  a  helping 
hand.  I  thought  her  prattle,  in  that  broad  but 
musical  patois,  and  along  these  old  hedge-rows,  the 
most  delicious  I  ever  heard.  She  said  they  came 
to  Shottery  for  milk  because  it  was  much  better 
than  they  got  at  Stratford.  In  America  they  had 
a  cow  of  their  own.  Had  she  lived  in  America, 
then?  "Oh,  yes,  four  years,"  and  the  stream  of  her 
talk  was  fuller  at  once.  But  I  hardly  recognized 
even  the  name  of  my  own  country  in  her  innocent 
prattle ;  it  seemed  like  a  land  of  fable,  —  all  had  a 
remote  mythological  air,  and  I  pressed  my  inquiries 
as  if  I  was  hearing  of  this  strange  land  for  the  first 
time.  She  had  an  uncle  still  living  in  the  "  States 


212  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

of  Hoio,"  but  exactly  where  her  father  had  lived 
was  not  so  clear.  In  The  States  somewhere,  and  in 
"Ogden's  Valley."  There  was  a  lake  there  that 
had  salt  in  it,  and  not  far  off  was  the  sea.  "In 
America,"  she  said,  and  she  gave  such  a  sweet  and 
novel  twang  to  her  words,  "we  had  a  cow  of  our 
own,  and  two  horses  and  a  wagon  and  a  dog." 
"Yes,"  joined  in  her  little  brother,  "and  nice 
chickens  and  a  goose."  "But,"  continued  the  sis 
ter,  "we  owns  none  o'  them  here.  In  America 
'most  everybody  owned  their  houses,  and  we  could 
a'  owned  a  house  if  we  had  stay  id." 

"  What  made  you  leave  America  ? "  I  inquired. 

"'Cause  me  father  wanted  to  see  his  friends." 

"  Did  your  mother  want  to  come  back  ?  " 

"No,  me  mother  wanted  to  stay  in  America." 

"  Is  food  as  plenty  here,  —  do  you  have  as  much 
to  eat  as  in  The  States  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  more.  The  first  year  we  were  in 
America  we  could  not  get  enough  to  eat." 

"But  you  do  not  get  meat  very  often  here,  do 
you  ? " 

"  Quite  often, "  —  not  so  confidently. 

"How  often?" 

"Well,  sometimes  we  has  pig's  liver  in  the  week 
time,  and  we  allers  has  meat  of  a  Sunday;  we  likes 
meat. " 

Here  we  emerged  from  the  fields  into  the  high 
way,  and  the  happy  children  went  their  way  and 
I  mine. 

In  the  evening,  as  I  was  strolling  about  the  town, 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  213 

a  poor,  crippled,  half-witted  fellow  came  jerking 
himself  across  the  street  after  me  and  offered  him 
self  as  a  guide. 

"I'm  the  feller  what  showed  Artemus  Ward 
around  when  he  was  here.  You  've  heerd  on  me, 
I  expect?  Not?  Why,  he  characterized  me  in 
'  Punch, '  he  did.  He  asked  me  if  Shakespeare 
took  all  the  wit  out  of  Stratford?  And  this  is 
what  I  said  to  him :  *  No,  he  left  some  for  me. '  " 

But  not  wishing  to  be  guided  just  then,  I  bought 
the  poor  fellow  off  with  a  few  pence,  and  kept  on 
my  way. 

Stratford  is  a  quiet  old  place,  and  seems  mainly 
the  abode  of  simple  common  folk.  One  sees  no 
marked  signs  of  either  poverty  or  riches.  It  is  sit 
uated  in  a  beautiful  expanse  of  rich,  rolling  farming 
country,  but  bears  little  resemblance  to  a  rural  town 
in  America:  not  a  tree,  not  a  spear  of  grass;  the 
houses  packed  close  together  and  crowded  up  on  the 
street,  the  older  ones  presenting  their  gables  and 
showing  their  structure  of  oak  beams.  English  oak 
seems  incapable  of  decay  even  when  exposed  to  the 
weather,  while  indoors  it  takes  three  or  four  centu 
ries  to  give  it  its  best  polish  and  hue. 

I  took  my  last  view  of  Stratford  quite  early  of  a 
bright  Sunday  morning,  when  the  ground  was  white 
with  a  dense  hoar-frost.  The  great  church,  as  I 
approached  it,  loomed  up  under  the  sun  through  a 
bank  of  blue  mist.  The  Avon  was  like  glass,  with 
little  wraiths  of  vapor  clinging  here  and  there  to  its 
surface.  Two  white  swans  stood  on  its  banks  in 


214  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

front  of  the  church,  and,  without  regarding  the 
mirror  that  so  drew  my  eye,  preened  their  plumage ; 
while,  farther  up,  a  piebald  cow  reached  down  for 
some  grass  under  the  brink  where  the  frost  had  not 
settled,  and  a  piebald  cow  in  the  river  reached  up 
for  the  same  morsel.  Hooks  and  crows  and  jack 
daws  were  noisy  in  the  trees  overhead  and  about 
the  church  spire.  I  stood  a  long  while  musing 
upon  the  scene. 

At  the  birthplace  of  the  poet,  the  keeper,  an 
elderly  woman,  shivered  with  cold  as  she  showed 
me  about.  The  primitive,  home-made  appearance 
of  things,  the  stone  floor  much  worn  and  broken, 
the  rude  oak  beams  and  doors,  the  leaden  sash  with 
the  little  window-panes  scratched  full  of  names, 
among  others  that  of  Walter  Scott,  the  great  chim 
neys  where  quite  a  family  could  literally  sit  in  the 
chimney  corner,  etc.,  were  what  I  expected  to  see, 
and  looked  very  human  and  good.  It  is  impossible 
to  associate  anything  but  sterling  qualities  and  sim 
ple,  healthful  characters  with  these  early  English 
birthplaces.  They  are  nests  built  with  faithfulness 
and  affection,  and  through  them  one  seems  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  devouter,  sturdier  times. 

From  Stratford  I  went  back  to  Warwick,  thence 
to  Birmingham,  thence  to  Shrewsbury,  thence  to 
Chester,  the  old  Roman  camp,  thence  to  Holyhead, 
being  intent  on  getting  a  glimpse  of  Wales  and  the 
Welsh,  and  maybe  taking  a  tramp  up  Snowdon  or 
some  of  his  congeners,  for  my  legs  literally  ached 
for  a  mountain  climb,  a  certain  set  of  muscles  being 


AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD  215 

BO  long  unused.  In  the  course  of  my  journeyings, 
I  tried  each  class  or  compartment  of  the  cars,  first, 
second,  and  third,  and  found  but  little  choice.  The 
difference  is  simply  in  the  upholstering,  and,  if  you 
are  provided  with  a  good  shawl  or  wrap-up,  you 
need  not  be  particular  about  that.  In  the  first,  the 
floor  is  carpeted  and  the  seats  substantially  uphol 
stered,  usually  in  blue  woolen  cloth ;  in  the  second, 
the  seat  alone  is  cushioned;  and  in  the  third,  you 
sit  on  a  bare  bench.  But  all  classes  go  by  the  same 
train,  and  often  in  the  same  car,  or  carriage,  as  they 
say  here.  In  the  first  class,  travel  the  real  and  the 
shoddy  nobility  and  Americans;  in  the  second,  com 
mercial  and  professional  men;  and  in  the  third,  the 
same,  with  such  of  the  peasantry  and  humbler 
classes  as  travel  by  rail.  The  only  annoyance  I  ex 
perienced  in  the  third  class  arose  from  the  freedom 
with  which  the  smokers,  always  largely  in  the  ma 
jority,  indulged  in  their  favorite  pastime.  (I  per 
ceive  there  is  one  advantage  in  being  a  smoker:  you 
are  never  at  a  loss  for  something  to  do,  —  you  can 
smoke. ) 

At  Chester  I  stopped  overnight,  selecting  my 
hotel  for  its  name,  the  "Green  Dragon."  It  was 
Sunday  night,  and  the  only  street  scene  my  rambles 
afforded  was  quite  a  large  gathering  of  persons  on 
a  corner,  listening,  apparently  with  indifference  or 
curiosity,  to  an  ignorant,  hot-headed  street  preacher. 
"Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  you  will 
not  like  to  hear,  —  something  that  will  make  you 
angry.  I  know  it  will.  It  is  this:  I  expect  to  go 


216  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

to  heaven.  I  am  perfectly  confident  I  shall  go  there. 
I  know  you  do  not  like  that."  But  why  his  hear 
ers  should  not  like  that  did  not  appear.  For  my 
part,  I  thought,  for  the  good  of  all  concerned,  the 
sooner  he  went  the  better. 

In  the  morning,  I  mounted  the  wall  in  front  of 
the  cathedral,  and,  with  a  very  lively  feeling  of 
wonder  and  astonishment,  walked  completely  around 
the  town  on  top  of  it,  a  distance  of  about  two  miles. 
The  wall,  being  in  places  as  high  as  the  houses, 
afforded  some  interesting  views  into  attics,  cham 
bers,  back  yards,  etc.  I  envied  the  citizens  such  a 
delightful  promenade  ground,  full  of  variety  and  in 
terest.  Just  the  right  distance,  too,  for  a  brisk  turn 
to  get  up  an  appetite,  or  a  leisurely  stroll  to  tone 
down  a  dinner ;  while  as  a  place  for  chance  meetings 
of  happy  lovers,  or  to  get  away  from  one's  compan 
ions  if  the  flame  must  burn  in  secret  and  in  silence, 
it  is  unsurpassed.  I  occasionally  met  or  passed  other 
pedestrians,  but  noticed  that  it  required  a  brisk  pace 
to  lessen  the  distance  between  myself  and  an  attrac 
tive  girlish  figure  a  few  hundred  feet  in  advance  of 
me.  The  railroad  cuts  across  one  corner  of  the  town, 
piercing  the  walls  with  two  very  carefully  con 
structed  archways.  Indeed,  the  people  are  very 
choice  of  the  wall,  and  one  sees  posted  notices  of 
the  city  authorities  offering  a  reward  for  any  one 
detected  in  injuring  it.  It  has  stood  now  some 
seven  or  eight  centuries,  and  from  appearances  is 
good  for  one  or  two  more.  There  are  several  towers 
on  the  wall,  from  one  of  which  some  English  king, 


AN  OCTOBEE  ABROAD  217 

over  two  hundred  years  ago,  witnessed  the  defeat  of 
his  army  on  Rowton  Moor.  But  when  I  was  there, 
though  the  sun  was  shining,  the  atmosphere  was  so 
loaded  with  smoke  that  I  could  not  catch  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  moor  where  the  battle  took  place. 
There  is  a  gateway  through  the  wall  on  each  of  the 
four  sides,  and  this  slender  and  beautiful  but  black 
ened  and  worn  span,  as  if  to  afford  a  transit  from 
the  chamber  windows  on  one  side  of  the  street  to 
those  of  the  other,  is  the  first  glimpse  the  traveler 
gets  of  the  wall.  The  gates  beneath  the  arches  have 
entirely  disappeared.  The  ancient  and  carved  oak 
fronts  of  the  buildings  on  the  main  street,  and  the 
inclosed  sidewalk  that  ran  through  the  second  stories 
of  the  shops  and  stores,  were  not  less  strange  and 
novel  to  me.  The  sidewalk  was  like  a  gentle  up 
heaval  in  its  swervings  and  undulations,  or  like  a 
walk  through  the  woods,  the  oaken  posts  and  braces 
on  the  outside  answering  for  the  trees,  and  the  pros 
pect  ahead  for  the  vista. 

The  ride  along  the  coast  of  Wales  was  crowded 
with  novelty  and  interest, —  the  sea  on  one  side  and 
the  mountains  on  the  other,  —  the  latter  bleak  and 
heathery  in  the  foreground,  but  cloud-capped  and 
snow-white  in  the  distance.  The  afternoon  was 
dark  and  lowering,  and  just  before  entering  Conway 
we  had  a  very  striking  view.  A  turn  in  the  road 
suddenly  brought  us  to  where  we  looked  through 
a  black  framework  of  heathery  hills,  and  beheld 
Snowdon  and  his  chiefs  apparently  with  the  full 
rigors  of  winter  upon  them.  It  was  so  satisfying 


218  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

that  I  lost  at  once  my  desire  to  tramp  up  them.  I 
barely  had  time  to  turn  from  the  mountains  to 
get  a  view  of  Conway  Castle,  one  of  the  largest 
and  most  impressive  ruins  I  saw.  The  train  cuts 
close  to  the  great  round  toAver,  and  plunges  through 
the  wall  of  gray,  shelving  stone  into  the  bluff  be 
yond,  giving  the  traveler  only  time  to  glance  and 
marvel. 

About  the  only  glimpse  I  got  of  the  Welsh  char 
acter  was  on  this  route.  At  one  of  the  stations, 
Abergele  I  think,  a  fresh,  blooming  young  woman 
got  into  our  compartment,  occupied  by  myself  and 
two  commercial  travelers  (bag-men,  or,  as  we  say, 
"  drummers "),  and,  before  she  could  take  her  seat, 
was  complimented  by  one  of  them  on  her  good 
looks.  Feeling  in  a  measure  responsible  for  the 
honor  and  good-breeding  of  the  compartment,  I 
could  hardly  conceal  my  embarrassment;  but  the 
young  Abergeless  herself  did  not  seem  to  take  it 
amiss,  and,  when  presently  the  jolly  bag-man  ad 
dressed  his  conversation  to  her,  replied  beseemingly 
and  good-naturedly.  As  she  arose  to  leave  the  car 
at  her  destination,  a  few  stations  beyond,  he  said 
"he  thought  it  a  pity  that  such  a  sweet,  pretty  girl 
should  leave  us  so  soon,"  and  seizing  her  hand  the 
audacious  rascal  actually  solicited  a  kiss.  I  ex 
pected  this  would  be  the  one  drop  too  much,  and 
that  we  should  have  a  scene,  and  began  to  regard 
myself  in  the  light  of  an  avenger  of  an  insulted 
Welsh  beauty,  when  my  heroine  paused,  and  I  be 
lieve  actually  deliberated  whether  or  not  to  comply 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  219 

before  two  spectators !  Certain  it  is  that  she  yielded 
the  highwayman  her  hand,  and,  bidding  him  a  gentle 
good-night  in  Welsh,  smilingly  and  blushingly  left 
the  car.  "Ah,"  said  the  villain,  "these  Welsh 
girls  are  capital ;  I  know  them  like  a  book,  and  have 
had  many  a  lark  with  them." 

At  Holyhead  I  got  another  glimpse  of  the  Welsh. 
I  had  booked  for  Dublin,  and  having  several  hours 
on  my  hands  of  a  dark,  threatening  night  before  the 
departure  of  the  steamer,  I  sallied  out  in  the  old 
town  tilted  up  against  the  side  of  the  hill,  in  the 
most  adventurous  spirit  I  could  summon  up,  thread 
ing  my  way  through  the  dark,  deserted  streets, 
pausing  for  a  moment  in  front  of  a  small  house  with 
closed  doors  and  closely-shuttered  windows,  where  I 
heard  suppressed  voices,  the  monotonous  scraping  of 
a  fiddle,  and  a  lively  shuffling  of  feet,  and  passing 
on  finally  entered,  drawn  by  the  musical  strains,  a 
quaint  old  place,  where  a  blind  harper,  seated  in  the 
corner  of  a  rude  kind  of  coffee  and  sitting  room,  was 
playing  on  a  harp.  I  liked  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place,  so  primitive  and  wholesome,  and  was  quite 
willing  to  have  my  attention  drawn  off  from  the 
increasing  storm  without,  and  from  the  bitter  cup 
which  I  knew  the  Irish  sea  was  preparing  for  me. 
The  harper  presently  struck  up  a  livelier  strain, 
when  two  Welsh  girls,  who  were  chatting  before 
the  grate,  one  of  them  as  dumpy  as  a  bag  of  meal 
and  the  other  slender  and  tall,  stepped  into  the 
middle  of  the  floor  and  began  to  dance  to  the  deli 
cious  music,  a  Welsh  mechanic  and  myself  drink- 


220  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

ing  our  ale  and  looking  on  approvingly.  After  a 
while  the  pleasant,  modest-looking  bar-maid,  whom 
I  had  seen  behind  the  beer-levers  as  I  entered,  came 
in,  and,  after  looking  on  for  a  moment,  was  per 
suaded  to  lay  down  her  sewing  and  join  in  the 
dance.  Then  there  came  in  a  sandy-haired  Welsh 
man,  who  could  speak  and  understand  only  his 
native  dialect,  and  finding  his  neighbors  affiliating 
with  an  Englishman,  as  he  supposed,  and  trying  to 
speak  the  hateful  tongue,  proceeded  to  berate  them 
sharply  (for  it  appears  the  Welsh  are  still  jealous  of 
the  English) ;  but  when  they  explained  to  him  that 
I  was  not  an  Englishman,  but  an  American,  and 
had  already  twice  stood  the  beer  all  around  (at  an 
outlay  of  sixpence),  he  subsided  into  a  sulky  silence, 
and  regarded  me  intently. 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  policeman  paused  at  the 
door,  and  intimated  that  it  was  time  the  house  was 
shut  up  and  the  music  stopped,  and  to  outward 
appearances  his  friendly  warning  was  complied  with ; 
but  the  harp  still  discoursed  in  a  minor  key,  and  a 
light  tripping  and  shuffling  of  responsive  feet  might 
occasionally  have  been  heard  for  an  hour  later. 
When  I  arose  to  go,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  I  could  not  see  more  of  this  simple  and  social 
people,  with  whom  I  at  once  felt  that  "touch  of 
nature"  which  "makes  the  whole  world  kin,"  and 
.my  leave-taking  was  warm  and  hearty  accordingly. 

Through  the  wind  and  the  darkness  I  threaded 
my  way  to  the  wharf,  and  in  less  than  two  hours 
afterward  was  a  most  penitent  voyager,  and  fitfully 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  221 

joining  in  that  doleful  gastriloquial  chorus  that  so 
often  goes  up  from  the  cabins  of  those  Channel 
steamers. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  went  to  Ireland,  except  it 
was  to  indulge  the  few  drops  of  Irish  blood  in  my 
veins,  and  maybe  also  with  a  view  to  shorten  my 
sea  voyage  by  a  day.  I  also  felt  a  desire  to  see  one 
or  two  literary  men  there,  and  in  this  sense  my 
journey  was  eminently  gratifying;  but  so  far  from 
shortening  my  voyage  by  a  day,  it  lengthened  it  by 
three  days,  that  being  the  time  it  took  me  to  re 
cover  from  the  effects  of  it;  and  as  to  the  tie  of 
blood,  I  think  it  must  nearly  all  have  run  out,  for 
I  felt  but  few  congenital  throbs  while  in  Ireland. 

The  Englishman  at  home  is  a  much  more  lovable 
animal  than  the  Englishman  abroad,  but  Pat  in  Ire 
land  is  even  more  of  a  pig  than  in  this  country. 
Indeed,  the  squalor  and  poverty,  and  cold,  skinny 
wretchedness  one  sees  in  Ireland,  and  (what  freezes 
our  sympathies)  the  groveling,  SAviny  shiftlessness 
.that  pervades  these  hovels,  no  traveler  can  be  pre 
pared  for.  It  is  the  bare  prose  of  misery,  the  un- 
heroic  of  tragedy.  There  is  not  one  redeeming  or 
mitigating  feature. 

Railway  traveling  in  Ireland  is  not  so  rapid  or  so 
cheap  as  in  England.  Neither  are  the  hotels  as 
good  or  as  clean,  or  the  fields  so  well  kept,  or  the 
look  of  the  country  so  thrifty  and  peaceful.  The 
dissatisfaction  of  the  people  is  in  the  very  air.  Ire 
land  looks  sour  and  sad.  She  looks  old,  too,  as  do 
all  those  countries  beyond  seas, —  old  in  a  way  that 


222  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

the  American  is  a  stranger  to.  It  is  not  the  age  of 
nature,  the  unshaken  permanence  of  the  hills  through 
long  periods  of  time,  but  the  weight  of  human  years 
and  human  sorrows,  as  if  the  earth  sympathized 
with  man  and  took  on  his  attributes  and  infirmi 
ties. 

I  did  not  go  much  about  Dublin,  and  the  most 
characteristic  thing  I  saw  there  were  those  queer, 
uncomfortable  dog-carts,  —  a  sort  of  Irish  bull  on 
wheels,  with  the  driver  on  one  side  balancing  the 
passenger  on  the  other,  and  the  luggage  occupying 
the  seat  of  safety  between.  It  comes  the  nearest  to 
riding  on  horseback,  and  on  a  side-saddle  at  that, 
of  any  vehicle-traveling  I  ever  did. 

I  stopped  part  of  a  day  at  Mallow,  an  old  town 
on  the  Blackwater,  in  one  of  the  most  fertile  agri 
cultural  districts  of  Ireland.  The  situation  is  fine, 
and  an  American  naturally  expects  to  see  a  charm 
ing  rural  town,  planted  with  trees  and  filled  with 
clean,  comfortable  homes;  but  he  finds  instead  a 
wretched  place,  smitten  with  a  plague  of  filth  and 
mud,  and  offering  but  one  object  upon  which  the 
eye  can  dwell  with  pleasure,  and  that  is  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle,  "Mallow  Castle  over  Blackwater," 
which  dates  back  to  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
It  stands  amid  noble  trees  on  the  banks  of  the  river, 
and  its  walls,  some  of  them  thirty  or  forty  feet 
high,  are  completely  overrun  with  ivy.  The  Black- 
water,  a  rapid,  amber-colored  stream,  is  spanned  at 
this  point  by  a  superb  granite  bridge. 

And  I  will  say  here  that  anything  like  a  rural 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  223 

town  in  our  sense, — a  town  with  trees  and  grass  and 
large  spaces  about  the  houses,  gardens,  yards,  shrub 
bery,  coolness,  fragrance,  etc. ,  —  seems  unknown  in 
England  or  Ireland.  The  towns  and  villages  are 
all  remnants  of  feudal  times,  and  seem  to  have  been 
built  with  an  eye  to  safety  and  compactness,  or  else 
m«n  were  more  social,  and  loved  to  get  closer  to 
gether,  then  than  now.  Perhaps  the  damp,  chilly 
climate  made  them  draw  nearer  together.  At  any 
rate,  the  country  towns  are  little  cities;  or  rather 
it  is  as  if  another  London  had  been  cut  up  in  little 
and  big  pieces  and  distributed  over  the  land. 

In  the  afternoon,  to  take  the  kinks  out  of  my  legs, 
and  quicken,  if  possible,  my  circulation  a  little, 
which  since  the  passage  over  the  Channel  had  felt 
as  if  it  was  thick  and  green,  I  walked  rapidly  to 
the  top  of  the  Kockmeledown  Mountains,  getting  a 
good  view  of  Irish  fields  and  roads  and  fences  as  I 
went  up,  and  a  very  wide  and  extensive  view  of  the 
country  after  I  had  reached  the  summit,  and  im 
proving  the  atmosphere  of  my  physical  tenement 
amazingly.  These  mountains  have  no  trees  or 
bushes  or  other  growth  than  a  harsh  prickly  heather, 
about  a  foot  high,  which  begins  exactly  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  You  are  walking  on  smooth,  fine 
meadow  land,  when  you  leap  a  fence  and  there  is 
the  heather.  On  the  highest  point  of  this  mountain, 
and  on  the  highest  point  of  all  the  mountains  around, 
was  a  low  stone  mound,  which  I  was  puzzled  to 
know  the  meaning  of.  Standing  there,  the  country 
rolled  away  beneath  me  under  a  cold,  gray  Novem- 


224  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

her  sky,  and,  as  was  the  case  with  the  English  land 
scape,  looked  singularly  desolate, —  the  desolation  of 
a  dearth  of  human  homes,  industrial  centres,  fami 
lies,  workers,  and  owners  of  the  soil.  Few  roads, 
scarce  ever  a  vehicle,  no  barns,  no  groups  of  bright, 
well-ordered  buildings,  indeed  no  farms  and  neigh 
borhoods  and  schoolhouses,  but  a  wide  spread  of 
rich,  highly  cultivated  country,  with  here  and  there, 
visible  to  close  scrutiny,  small  gray  stone  houses  with 
thatched  roofs,  the  abodes  of  poverty  and  wretched 
ness.  A  recent  English  writer  says  the  first  thing 
that  struck  him  in  American  landscape-painting  was 
the  absence  of  man  and  the  domestic  animals  from 
the  pictures,  and  the  preponderance  of  rude,  wild 
nature;  and  his  first  view  of  this  country  seems  to 
have  made  the  same  impression.  But  it  is  certainly 
true  that  the  traveler  through  any  of  our  older 
States  will  see  ten  houses,  rural  habitations,  to  one 
in  England  or  Ireland,  though,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
nature  here  looks  much  less  domesticated,  and  much 
less  expressive  of  human  occupancy  and  contact. 
The  Old  World  people  have  clung  to  the  soil  closer 
and  more  lovingly  than  we  do.  The  ground  has 
been  more  precious.  They  have  had  none  to  waste, 
and  have  made  the  most  of  every  inch  of  it.  "VYher- 
ever  they  have  touched  they  have  taken  root  and 
thriven  as  best  they  could.  Then  the  American  is 
more  cosmopolitan  and  less  domestic.  He  is  not 
so  local  in  his  feelings  and  attachments.  He  does 
not  bestow  himself  upon  the  earth  or  upon  his  home 
as  his  ancestors  did.  He  feathers  his  nest  very 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  225 

little.  Why  should  he  ?  He  may  migrate  to-mor 
row  and  build  another.  He  is  like  the  passenger 
pigeon  that  lays  its  eggs  and  rears  its  young  upon 
a  little  platform  of  bare  twigs.  Our  poverty  and 
nakedness  is  in  this  respect,  I  think,  beyond  dis 
pute.  There  is  nothing  nest-like  about  our  homes, 
either  in  their  interiors  or  exteriors.  Even  wealth 
and  taste  and  foreign  aids  rarely  attain  that  cosy, 
mellowing  atmosphere  that  peryades  not  only  the 
lowly  birthplaces  but  the  halls  and  manor  houses  of 
older  lands.  And  what  do  our  farms  represent  but 
so  much  real  estate,  so  much  cash  value  ? 

Only  where  man  loves  the  soil,  and  nestles  to  it 
closely  and  long,  will  it  take  on  this  beneficent  and 
human  look  which  foreign  travelers  miss  in  our 
landscape;  and  only  where  homes  are  built  with 
fondness  and  emotion,  and  in  obedience  to  the 
social,  paternal,  and  domestic  instincts,  will  they 
hold  the  charm  and  radiate  and  be  warm  with  the 
feeling  I  have  described. 

And,  while  I  am  upon  the  subject,  I  will  add  that 
European  cities  differ  from  ours  in  this  same  par 
ticular.  They  have  a  homelier  character,  — more 
the  air  of  dwelling-places,  the  abodes  of  men  drawn 
together  for  other  purposes  than  traffic.  People  ac 
tually  live  in  them,  and  find  life  sweet  and  festal. 
But  what  does  our  greatest  city,  New  York,  express 
besides  commerce  or  politics,  or  what  other  reason 
has  it  for  its  existence?  This  is,  of  course,  in  a 
measure  the  result  of  the  modern  worldly  and  prac 
tical  business  spirit  which  more  and  more  animates 


226  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

all  nations,  and  which  led  Carlyle  to  say  of  his  own 
countrymen  that  they  were  becoming  daily  more 
"flat,  stupid,  and  mammonish."  Yet  I  am  per 
suaded  that  in  our  case  it  is  traceable  also  to  the 
leanness  and  depletion  of  our  social  and  convivial 
instincts,  and  to  the  fact  that  the  material  cares  of 
life  are  more  serious  and  engrossing  with  us  than 
with  any  other  people. 

I  spent  part  of  a  day  at  Cork,  wandering  about 
the  town,  threading  my  way  through  the  back 
streets  and  alleys,  and  seeing  life  reduced  to  fewer 
makeshifts  than  I  had  ever  before  dreamed  of.  I 
went  through,  or  rather  skirted,  a  kind  of  second 
hand  market,  where  the  most  sorry  and  dilapidated 
articles  of  clothing  and  household  utensils  were 
offered  for  sale,  and  where  the  cobblers  were  cob 
bling  up  old  shoes  that  would  hardly  hold  together. 
Then  the  wretched  old  women  one  sees,  without 
any  sprinkling  of  young  ones, —  youth  and  age  alike 
bloomless  and  unlovely. 

In  a  meadow  on  the  hills  that  encompass  the  city, 
I  found  the  American  dandelion  in  bloom,  and  some 
large  red  clover,  and  started  up  some  skylarks  as  I 
might  start  up  the  field  sparrows  in  our  own  up- 
lying  fields. 

Is  the  magpie  a  Celt  and  a  Catholic?  I  saw  not 
one  in  England,  but  plenty  of  them  in  France,  and 
again  when  I  reached  Ireland. 

At  Queenstown  I  awaited  the  steamer  from  Liver 
pool,  and  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  was 
delighted  to  see  her  long  black  form  moving  up  the 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  227 

bay.  She  came  to  anchor  about  a  mile  or  two  out, 
and  a  little  tug  was  in  readiness  to  take  us  off.  A 
score  or  more  of  emigrants,  each  with  a  bag  and 
box,  had  been  waiting  all  the  morning  at  the  wharf. 
When  the  time  of  embarkation  arrived,  the  agent 
stepped  aboard  the  tug  and  called  out  their  names 
one  by  one,  when  Bridget  and  Catherine  and  Patrick 
and  Michael,  and  the  rest,  came  aboard,  received 
their  tickets,  and  passed  "forward,"  with  a  half- 
frightened,  half-bewildered  look.  But  not  much 
emotion  was  displayed  until  the  boat  began  to  move 
off,  when  the  tears  fell  freely,  and  they  continued 
to  fall  faster  and  faster,  and  the  sobs  to  come  thicker 
and  thicker,  until,  as  the  faces  of  friends  began  to 
fade  on  the  wharf,  both  men  and  women  burst  out 
into  a  loud,  unrestrained  bawl.  This  sudden  dem 
onstration  of  grief  seemed  to  frighten  the  children 
and  smaller  fry,  who  up  to  this  time  had  been  very 
jovial;  but  now,  suspecting  something  was  wrong, 
they  all  broke  out  in  a  most  pitiful  chorus,  forming 
an  anti-climax  to  the  wail  of  their  parents  that  was 
quite  amusing,  and  that  seemed  to  have  its  effect 
upon  the  "children  of  a  larger  growth,"  for  they 
instantly  hushed  their  lamentations  and  turned  their 
attention  toward  the  great  steamer.  There  was  a 
rugged  but  bewildered  old  granny  among  them,  on 
her  way  to  join  her  daughter  somewhere  in  the  in 
terior  of  New  York,  who  seemed  to  regard  me  with 
a  kindred  eye,  and  toward  whom,  I  confess,  I  felt 
some  family  affinity.  Before  we  had  got  half  way  to 
the  vessel,  the  dear  old  creature  missed  a  sheet  from 


228  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

her  precious  bundle  of  worldly  effects,  and  very 
confidentially  told  me  that  her  suspicions  pointed 
to  the  stoker,  a  bristling,  sooty  "wild  Irishman." 
The  stoker  resented  the  insinuation,  and  I  overheard 
him  berating  the  old  lady  in  Irish  so  sharply  and 
threateningly  (I  had  no  doubt  of  his  guilt)  that  she 
was  quite  frightened,  and  ready  to  retract  the  charge 
to  hush  the  man  up.  She  seemed  to  think  her 
troubles  had  just  begun.  If  they  behaved  thus  to 
her  on  the  little  tug,  what  would  they  not  do  on 
board  the  great  black  steamer  itself?  So  when  she 
got  separated  from  her  luggage  in  getting  aboard  the 
vessel,  her  excitement  was  great,  and  I  met  her  fol 
lowing  about  the  man  whom  she  had  accused  of  filch 
ing  her  bed  linen,  as  if  he  must  have  the  clew  to 
the  lost  bed  itself.  Her  face  brightened  when  she 
saw  me,  and,  giving  me  a  terribly  hard  wink  and  a 
most  expressive  nudge,  said  she  wished  I  would  keep 
near  her  a  little.  This  I  did,  and  soon  had  the 
pleasure  of  leaving  her  happy  and  reassured  beside 
her  box  and  bundle. 

The  passage  home,  though  a  rough  one,  was  cheer 
fully  and  patiently  borne.  I  found  a  compound 
motion,  —  the  motion  of  a  screw  steamer,  a  roll  and 
a  plunge  —  less  trying  to  my  head  than  the  simple 
rocking  or  pitching  of  the  side-wheeled  Scotia. 
One  motion  was  in  a  measure  a  foil  to  the  other. 
My  brain,  acted  upon  by  two  forces,  was  compelled 
to  take  the  hypothenuse,  and  I  think  the  concussion 
was  considerably  diminished  thereby.  The  vessel 
was  forever  trembling  upon  the  verge  of  immense 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  229 

watery  chasms  that  opened  now  under  her  port 
bows,  now  under  her  starboard,  and  that  almost 
made  one  catch  for  his  breath  as  he  looked  into 
them;  yet  the  noble  ship  had  a  way  of  skirting 
them  or  striding  across  them  that  was  quite  wonder 
ful.  Only  five  days  was  I  compelled  to  "hole  up" 
in  my  stateroom,  hibernating,  weathering  the  final 
rude  shock  of  the  Atlantic.  Part  of  this  time  I 
was  capable  of  feeling  a  languid  interest  in  the  os 
cillations  of  my  coat  suspended  from  a  hook  in 
the  door.  Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  all  day 
long,  vibrated  this  black  pendulum,  at  long  intervals 
touching  the  sides  of  the  room,  indicating  great 
lateral  or  diagonal  motion  of  the  ship.  The  great 
Avaves,  I  observed,  go  in  packs  like  wolves.  Now 
one  would  pounce  upon  her,  then  another,  then  an 
other,  in  quick  succession,  making  the  ship  strain 
every  nerve  to  shake  them  off.  Then  she  would 
glide  along  quietly  for  some  minutes,  and  my  coat 
would  register  but  a  few  degrees  in  its  imaginary 
arc,  when  another  band  of  the  careering  demons 
would  cross  our  path  and  harass  us  as  before.  Some 
times  they  would  pound  and  thump  on  the  sides  of 
the  vessel  like  immense  sledge-hammers,  beginning 
away  up  toward  the  bows  and  quickly  running  down 
her  whole  length,  jarring,  raking,  and  venting  their 
wrath  in  a  very  audible  manner;  or  a  wave  would 
rake  along  the  side  with  a  sharp,  ringing,  metallic 
sound,  like  a  huge  spear-point  seeking  a  vulnerable 
place ;  or  some  hard- backed  monster  would  rise  up 
from  the  deep  and  grate  and  bump  the  whole  length 


230  WINTER  SUNSHINE 

of  the  keel,  forcibly  suggesting  hidden  rocks  and 
consequent  wreck  and  ruin. 

Then  it  seems  there  is  always  some  biggest  wave 
to  be  met  with  somewhere  on  the  voyage, —  a  mon 
ster  billow  that  engulfs  disabled  vessels,  and  some 
times  carries  away  parts  of  the  rigging  of  the  stanch- 
est.  This  big  wave  struck  us  the  third  day  out 
about  midnight,  and  nearly  threw  us  all  out  of  our 
berths,  and  careened  the  ship  over  so  far  that  it 
seemed  to  take  her  last  pound  of  strength  to  right 
herself  up  again.  There  was  a  slamming  of  doors, 
a  rush  of  crockery,  and  a  screaming  of  women,  heard 
above  the  general  din  and  confusion,  while  the  steer 
age  passengers  thought  their  last  hour  had  come. 
The  vessel  before  us  encountered  this  giant  wave 
during  a  storm  in  mid-ocean,  and  was  completely 
buried  beneath  it ;  one  of  the  officers  was  swept  over 
board,  the  engines  suddenly  stopped,  and  there  was 
a  terrible  moment  during  which  it  seemed  uncertain 
whether  the  vessel  would  shake  off  the  sea  or  go  to 
the  bottom. 

Besides  observing  the  oscillations  of  my  coat,  I 
had  at  times  a  stupid  satisfaction  in  seeing  my  two 
new  London  trunks  belabor  each  other  about  my 
stateroom  floor.  Nearly  every  day  they  would  break 
from  their  fastenings  under  my  berth  and  start  on 
a  wild  race  for  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 
Naturally  enough,  the  little  trunk  would  always 
get  the  start  of  the  big  one,  but  the  big  one  fol 
lowed  close,  and  sometimes  caught  the  little  one  in 
a  very  uncomfortable  manner.  Once  a  knife  and 


AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD  231 

fork  and  a  breakfast  plate  slipped  off  the  sofa  and 
joined  in  the  race;  but,  if  not  distanced,  they  got 
sadly  the  worst  of  it,  especially  the  plate.  But 
the  carpet  had  the  most  reason  to  complain.  Two 
or  three  turns  sufficed  to  loosen  it  from  the  floor, 
when,  shoved  to  one  side,  the  'two  trunks  took 
turns  in  butting  it.  I  used  to  allow  this  sport  to 
go  on  till  it  grew  monotonous,  when  I  would  alter 
nately  shout  and  ring  until  "Robert"  appeared  and 
restored  order. 

The  condition  of  certain  picture-frames  and  vases 
and  other  frail  articles  among  my  effects,  when  I 
reached  home,  called  to  mind  not  very  pleasantly 
this  trunken  frolic. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  the  ship 
in  her  struggles  with  the  waves.  You  are  lying 
there  wedged  into  your  berth,  and  she  seems  in 
deed  a  thing  of  life  and  conscious  power.  She  is 
built  entirely  of  iron,  is  500  feet  long,  and,  besides 
other  freight,  carries  2,500  tons  of  railroad  iron, 
which  lies  down  there  flat  in  her  bottom,  a  dead, 
indigestible  weight,  so  unlike  a  cargo  in  bulk,  yet 
she  is  a  quickened  spirit  for  all  that.  You  feel 
every  wave  that  strikes  her;  you  feel  the  sea  bear 
ing  her  down;  she  has  run  her  nose  into  one  of 
those  huge  swells,  and  a  solid  blue  wall  of  water 
tons  in  weight  comes  over  her  bows  and  floods  her 
forward  deck ;  she  braces  herself,  every  rod  and  rivet 
and  timber  seems  to  lend  its  support;  you  almost 
expect  to  see  the  wooden  walls  of  your  room  grow 
rigid  with  muscular  contraction;  she  trembles  from 


232  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

stem  to  stern,  she  recovers,  she  breaks  the  gripe  of 
her  antagonist,  and,  rising  up,  shakes  the  sea  from 
her  with  a  kind  of  gleeful  wrath;  I  hear  the  tor 
rents  of  water  rush  along  the  lower  decks,  and,  find 
ing  a  means  of  escape,  pour  back  into  the  sea,  glad 
to  get  away  on  any  terms,  and  I  say,  "Noble  ship! 
you  are  indeed  a  god !  " 

I  wanted  to  see  a  first-class  storm  at  sea,  and  per 
haps  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  heavy  blow  or 
hurricane  we  had  when  off '  Sable  Island,  but  I  con 
fess  I  was  not,  though,  by  the  lying-to  of  the  vessel 
and  the  frequent  soundings,  it  was  evident  there 
was  danger  about.  A  dense  fog  uprose,  which  did 
not  drift  like  a  land  fog,  but  was  as  immovable  as 
iron;  it  was  like  a  spell,  a  misty  enchantment;  and 
out  of  this  fog  came  the  wind,  a  steady,  booming 
blast,  that  smote  the  ship  over  on  her  side  and  held 
her  there,  and  howled  in  the  rigging  like  a  chorus  of 
fiends.  The  waves  did  not  know  which  way  to 
flee;  they  were  heaped  up  and  then  scattered  in  a 
twinkling.  I  thought  of  the  terrible  line  of  one  of 
our  poets :  — 

"  The  spasm  of  the  sky  and  the  shatter  of  the  sea." 
The  sea  looked  wrinkled  and  old  and  oh,  so  pitiless ! 
I  had  stood  long  before  Turner's  "  Shipwreck "  in 
the  National  Gallery  in  London,  and  this  sea  re 
called  his,  and  I  appreciated  more  than  ever  the 
artist's  great  powers. 

These  storms,  it  appears,  are  rotary  in  their  wild 
dance  and  promenade  up  and  down  the  seas.  "  Look 
the  wind  squarely  in  the  teeth,"  said  an  ex-sea- 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD  233 

captain  among  the  passengers,  "and  eight  points 
to  the  right  in  the  northern  hemisphere  will  he 
the  centre  of  the  storm,  and  eight  points  to  the 
left  in  the  southern  hemisphere."  I  remembered 
that,  in  Victor  Hugo's  terrible  dynamics,  storms  re 
volved  in  the  other  direction  in  the  northern  hem 
isphere,  or  followed  the  hands  of  a  watch,  while 
south  of  the  equator  they  no  doubt  have  ways 
equally  original. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  storm  abated,  the  fog 
was  suddenly  laid,  and,  looking  toward  the  setting 
sun,  I  saw  him  athwart  the  wildest,  most  desolate 
scene  in  which  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  behold  the 
face  of  that  god.  The  sea  was  terribly  agitated,  and 
the  endless  succession  of  leaping,  frothing  waves 
between  me  and  the  glowing  west  formed  a  picture 
I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

I  think  the  excuse  that  is  often  made  in  behalf 
of  American  literature,  namely,  that  our  people  are 
too  busy  with  other  things  yet,  and  will  show  the 
proper  aptitude  in  this  field,  too,  as  soon  as  leisure 
is  afforded,  is  fully  justified  by  events  of  daily  occur 
rence.  Throw  a  number  of  them  together  without 
anything  else  to  do,  and  they  at  once  communicate 
to  each  other  the  itch  of  authorship.  Confine  them 
on  board  an  ocean  steamer,  and  by  the  third  or 
fourth  day  a  large  number  of  them  will  break  out 
all  over  with  a  sort  of  literary  rash  that  nothing 
will  assuage  but  some  newspaper  or  journalistic  en 
terprise  which  will  give  the  poems  and  essays  and 
jokes  with  which  they  are  surcharged  a  chance  to 


234  WINTER   SUNSHINE 

be  seen  and  heard  of  men.  I  doubt  if  the  like  evei 
occurs  among  travelers  of  any  other  nationality. 
Englishmen  or  Frenchmen  or  Germans  want  some 
thing  more  warm  and  human,  if  less  "refined;" 
but  the  average  American,  when  in  company,  likes 
nothing  so  well  as  an  opportunity  to  show  the  na 
tional  trait  of  "smartness."  There  is  not  a  bit  of 
danger  that  we  shall  ever  relapse  into  barbarism 
while  so  much  latent  literature  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
our  daily  cares  and  avocations,  and  is  sure  to  come 
to  the  surface  the  moment  the  latter  are  suspended 
or  annulled! 

While  abreast  of  New  England,  and  I  don't 
know  how  many  miles  at  sea,  as  I  turned  in  my 
deck  promenade,  I  distinctly  scented  the  land, —  a 
subtle,  delicious  odor  of  farms  and  homesteads, 
warm  and  human,  that  floated  on  the  wild  sea  air, 
a  promise  and  a  token.  The  broad  red  line  that 
had  been  slowly  creeping  across  our  chart  for  so 
many  weary  days,  indicating  the  path  of  the  ship, 
had  now  completely  bridged  the  chasm,  and  had  got 
a  good  purchase  down  under  the  southern  coast  of 
New  England,  and  according  to  the  reckoning  we 
ought  to  have  made  Sandy  Hook  that  night ;  but 
though  the  position  of  the  vessel  was  no  doubt 
theoretically  all  right,  yet  practically  she  proved 
to  be  much  farther  out  at  sea,  for  all  that  afternoon 
and  night  she  held  steadily  on  her  course,  and  not 
till  next  morning  did  the  coast  of  Long  Island,  like 
a  thin,  broken  cloud  just  defined  on  the  horizon, 
come  into  view.  But  before  many  hours  we  had 


AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD  235 

passed  the  Hook,  and  were  moving  slowly  up  the 
bay  in  the  midday  splendor  of  the  powerful  and 
dazzling  light  of  the  New  World  sun.  And  how 
good  things  looked  to  me  after  even  so  brief  an 
absence !  —  the  brilliancy,  the  roominess,  the  deep 
transparent  blue  of  the  sky,  the  clear,  sharp  out 
lines,  the  metropolitan  splendor  of  New  York,  and 
especially  of  Broadway;  and  as  I  walked  up  that 
great  thoroughfare,  and  noted  the  familiar  physiog 
nomy  and  the  native  nonchalance  and  independence, 
I  experienced  the  delight  that  only  the  returned 
traveler  can  feel, —  the  instant  preference  of  one's 
own  country  and  countrymen  over  all  the  rest  of  the 
world. 


INDEX 


Apple,  the,  as  medicine  and  food, 

113,  114,  127,  128;    in   England, 

114,  171.  207  ;  in  Russia,  114  ;  in 
Chili,    115 ;    pleasing  to   all    the 
senses,   115,   116;     resisting    the 
cold,  117  ;  the  friend  of  man,  117, 
118  ;  individuality  of  different  va 
rieties,   118,   119 ;     stored    under 
ground,  119,  120;  the  boy's  fond 
ness  for,  121 ;  the  genuine  apple- 
eater,    122,  123 ;    prized    by    the 
early  settlers,  123 ;  a  social  fruit, 
123-125 ;    fondness  of    wild   and 
domestic   animals   for,    12G,   127 ; 
the  cow  and  the  wild  apple,  127  ; 
individuality   in  the   trees,    127  ; 
wild    apples   and    Thoreau,   128- 
130.     Sff  Orchard,  apple. 

Arbutus,  trailing,  18,  96. 

Architecture,  of  English  houses, 
152-154  ;  of  English  castles,  154  ; 
of  English  churches  and  cathe 
drals,  155-1G1 ;  in  America,  15G. 

Ash,  autumn  foliage  of,  107. 

Asters,  105,  IOC. 

Atmosphere,  in  England  and  Amer 
ica,  1,  2. 

Autumn,  in  Washington,  3-5;  ap 
proach  of,  97  ;  advance  of,  98,  99  ; 
Indian  summer  period  of,  99-101  ; 
a  parody  of  spring,  101,  102; 
contrasted  with  spring,  102,  103 ; 
the  last  flower  of,  104 ;  the  gos 
samer  of,  104,  105 ;  weeds  of, 
105,  10G  ;  foliage  of,  106,  107, 
171 ;  animal  life  in,  108-110. 

Avon,  the,  209,  213. 

Bass,  87. 

Bear,  black  (Ursus  americanus), 
108. 

Beauty,  female,  151,  152,  18C. 

Beaver  (Castor fiber),  67. 

Beech,  European,  189. 

Bees.  See  Bumblebee  and  Honey 
bee. 

Birds,  winter  bands  of,  16 ;  as  sow 


ers  of  seed,  98 ;  in  autumn,  101 ; 
of  the  orchard,  125,  126 ;  land- 
birds  at  sea,  132-134  ;  sea-birds, 
133,  134 ;  abundance  in  England, 
141,  142 ;  songs  of  European  and 
American,  1GC. 

Blackbird,  crow,  or  purple  grackle       * 
(Quiscalus  quiscula),  85. 

Blackbird,  European,  its  resem 
blance  to  the  American  robin, 
165,  1G6;  in  poetry,  166;  notes 
of,  166;  nest  of,  166. 

Blood-root,  17, 18. 

Bluebird  (Sialia  sialis),  16,  101. 

Bobolink  (Dolichonyx  oryzivorus), 
song  of,  163. 

Bonfires,  86. 

Boy,  the,  his  fondness  for  apples, 
121. 

Boys,  English  and  American,  169. 

Bridges,  in  Europe,  143,  144. 

Bumblebee,  109. 

Burdock,  105. 

Buzzard,  or  turkey  vulture  (Catfiar- 
tcs  aura),  5 ;  manner  of  flight,  7, 
8  ;  silence  of,  8,  9 ;  19. 

Cardinal.     See  Grosbeak,  carainal. 
Carlyle,   Thomas,   166 ;    a  call  on, 

204,  205 ;  greatness  of,  205. 
Cars,  street,  24. 
Cat,  the,  nose  of,  73. 
Cathedrals    in    England,    155-161. 

See  Churches. 
Catskills,  44. 

Cattle,  93.    See  Cows  and  Oxen. 
Cedar,  red,  106. 
Cedar-bird,  or  cedar  waxwing  (Am- 

pelis  cedrorum),  86,  125. 
Chester,    England,    171,   172,  215- 

217. 
Chickadee  (Parus atricapillus),  19, 

12G. 
Children,   English,   a  conversation 

with,  211,  212. 
Chili,  the  apple  in,  115. 
Chipmunk    (Tamias    slriatus),  55, 


238 


IXDEX 


68;  shifting  his  quarters,  108, 
126. 

Churches  in  England,  155,  209.  See 
Cathedrals. 

Cities,  homely  character  of  Euro 
pean,  225. 

Climate,  its  effect  on  body  and 
mind,  148,  149. 

Conway,  Wales,  217,  218. 

Coon.    See  Raccoon. 

Cork,  Ireland,  226. 

Cows,  86;  their  fondness  for  ap 
ples,  126  ;  planters  of  apples,  127. 
See  Cattle. 

Creeper,  brown  (Certhia  famiiiaris 
americana),  16. 

Cricket,  4. 

Crow,  American  (Coma  ameri- 
canus),  5,  7  ;  characteristics  of, 
9  ;  19,  101,  126 ;  notes  of,  8-10, 93. 

Crow,  carrion,  141. 

Crow,  fish  (Corvus  ossifragus), 
notes  of,  10. 

Cuckoo,  126. 

Dandelion,  226. 

Darwin,  Charles,  115,  175. 

Deer,  in  English  parks,  168. 

Dieppe,  186,  187,  198. 

Dog,   the,  a  true    pedestrian,  36  ; 

and  coon,  63-65  ;  and  turkey,  70  ; 

nose  of,  73;    smell,    sight,    and 

hearing  of,  74,  75.    See  Hound. 
Dog,   farm,   fox    and,  47,   48,   70; 

adventure  with  a  coon,  63. 
Dogwood,  5. 
Ducks,  wild,  101. 

Eagle,  8. 

Elecampane,  105. 

Electricity  in  winter,  6. 

Elm,  European,  190. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  36,  123, 
139. 

Emigrants,  Irish,  227,  228. 

England,  atmosphere  and  climate 
in,  1 ;  walking  in,  29-31 ;  the  ap 
ple  of,  114,  171,  207;  the  first 
day  in,  137-139 ;  human  quality 
of  the  landscape  in,  169,  140,  224 ; 
uninhabited  appearance  of  the 
country  in,  141,  224;  abundance 
of  birds  and  game  in,  141,  142; 
substantiality  of  the  architecture 
of,  143,  145;  the  bridges  of,  143  ; 
climate  of,  148,  149,  172 ;  dwell 
ing-houses  in,  152-154,  224,  225; 
castles  in,  154;  church  architec 
ture  in,  155-161  ;  a  mellow  coun 
try,  170-174;  subdued  appear 


ance  of  things  in,  170,  174; 
building-stone  in,  171,  172  ;  rail 
ways  in,  173, 174,  215  ;  woman  in, 
181-183 ;  hotels  and  inns  in,  182, 
183,  207-209,  211 ;  system,  order, 
and  fair  dealing  in,  183,  184  ;  ab 
sence  of  barns  in,  206  ;  field  occu 
pations  in,  206  ;  rural  towns  of, 
223.  See  London. 
English,  the,  health  and  physical 
development  of,  148-151 ;  cloth 
ing  of,  150,  151  ;  their  plainness 
of  speech,  152  ;  their  accent,  152 ; 
a  mellow  people,  170,  172-174 ; 
manners  of,  172,  173,  181 ;  sim 
plicity  of,  174-177  ;  at  home  and 
abroad,  176,  177 ;  brutality  of, 

177,  178 ;  traveling  in  America, 

178,  179;    in    crowds,    179-181; 
breadth  and  heartiness  of,  203. 

Finch,  purple  (Carpodaeus  pur* 
pureui),  19 ;  song  of,  163. 

Fire,  the  camp,  18,  19.  See  Bon 
fires. 

Flagg,  Wilson,  125. 

Flicker.    See  High-hole. 

Foot,  the  human,  23,  28,  29. 

Footpaths,  in  England,  29,  30. 

Fox,  Arctic  ( Vulpes  lagopus),  82. 

Fox,  cross  ( Vulpes  vulpes,  var.  de- 
cussatus),  44,  82. 

Fox,  gray  (Urocyon  cinereo-argen- 
latus),  44,  81-83. 

Fox,  prairie,  82. 

Fox,  red  (  Vulpes  wipes,  var.  ful- 
n«),  bark  of,  44,  81  ;  tracks  of, 
45  ;  meeting  a,  45,  46  ;  and  hound, 
46,  47,  68-76 ;  and  farm-dog,  47, 
48,  70 ;  female  and  young,  47,  48, 
79,  80 ;  tail  of,  48 ;  cunning  of, 
48-50,  71,  78 ;  trapping,  49-52,78, 
79 ;  abundance  of,  67,  68  ;  in  the 
poultry-yard,  68,  69 ;  a  hunt  with 
hounds,  73-77 ;  senses  of  smell, 
sight,  and  hearing,  74,  75  ;  still- 
hunting,  77,  78 ;  relationships  of, 
80-84. 

Fox,  silver-gray  or  black  (Vulpps 
vulpes,  var.  argtntatus),  44,  72, 
82,  83. 

France,  the  chalk  hills  of,  185; 
peasant  women  of,  186, 187  ;  the 
woman's  country,  187  ;  the  army 
of,  188  ;  appearance  of  the  coun 
try,  188,  189;  sanitary  arrange 
ments  in,  198.  See.  Paris. 

French,  the,  peasant  women,  186, 
187;  the  Louis  Napoleon  type, 
188 ;  good  taste  of,  192-194 ;  cut 


INDEX 


239 


sine  of,  193 ;  their  touches  of  art, 
194-196 ;  always  before  the  look 
ing-glass,  r.'i'i,  197 ;  a  nation  of 
drinkers,  197,  198 ;  their  love  of 
forests,  200,  201  ;  primitive  ardor 
and  fierceness  of,  201,  202. 

Frogs,  spawn  of,  96. 

Funeral,  a,  209,  210. 

Girl,  a  Welsh,  218,  219. 

Goldenrod,  105,  106. 

Goldfinch,   American  (Spinus  tris- 

lis),  98,  126. 

Goose,  domestic,  C8,  8C,  89. 
Goose,    wild    or    Canada    (Branta 

canndensis),  8C,  87,  101. 
Gossamer,  104,  105. 
Grackle,    purple.     See     Blackbird, 

crow. 
Grosbeak,cardinal,  or  cardinal  (Car- 

dinalis  cardinalis),  16. 
Grouse,  ruffed.     See  Partridge. 
Gulls,  88. 

Hairbird,     or     chipping     sparrow 

(SpizMa  socialis),  125. 
Hare,   Northern  (Lt>pus  americanus 

var.  virginianus),   tracks  of,  52, 

53 ;  habits  of,  53,  54. 
Hawks,  8,  126,  132. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  175. 
Hepatica,  or  liver-leaf,  96. 
High-hole,     or     flicker     (Colaptes 

anratus),  93,  126. 
Holyhead,  219,  220. 
Honey-bee,  86,  93. 
Hornet,  109. 
Hornet,  black,  110. 
Hotels  in  England,  182,   183.     See 

Inns. 
Hound,  45 ;  baying  of,  46,  70 ;  and 

fox,  67-76;  nose  of,  73. 
House-fly,  the  English,  138. 
Hugo,  Victor,  202,  233. 

Indian  summer,  99-101. 

Inns  in  England,  182,  207-209,  211. 
See  Hotels. 

Ireland,  American  birds  in,  134 ; 
first  sight  of,  135,  136  ;  misery  in, 
221  ;  jaunting-cars  of,  222 ;  rural 
towns  of,  222,  223 ;  the  landscape 
in,  223,  224;  emigrants  leaving, 
227,  228. 

Irish,  the,  shiftlessness  and  misery 
of,  221. 

Irishwoman,  an  emigrating,  227, 
228. 

Jackdaw,  214. 


Jaunting-car,  the  Irish,  222. 

Jay,  blue  (Cyanocitta  cristata),  16, 
126 ;  notes  of,  10. 

Jay,  European,  200. 

Junco,  slate-colored.  See  Snow 
bird. 

Kingbird  ( Tyrannus  tyrannus),  125. 

Kinglets,  16. 

Kockmeledown  Mountains,  223. 

Lark.     See  Skylark. 

Liver-leaf.    See  Hepatica. 

Lizard,  93. 

Logging,  88. 

London,  bridges  in,  143 ;  a  natural 
formation,  144-146;  the  fog  of, 
146-148,  157  ;  the  tailors  of,  50  ; 
female  beauty  in,  151 ;  the  Tower 
of,  154  ;  parks  in,  167-169 ;  street- 
cries  in,  173  ;  among  the  poor  in, 
178-181 ;  hotels  of,  182,  183  ;  con 
trasted  with  Paris,  191,  192. 

Magpie,  226. 

Mallow,  Ireland,  222. 

Maple,  soft,  85,  93,  95. 

Maple,  sugar,  89-94. 

Maples,  autumn  foliage  of,  107. 

Marten,  piue  (Muslda  americana), 

67. 

Maryland,  a  winter  walk  in,  15-21. 
Meadow-lark  (Sturnella  magna),  101. 
Mice,  wood,  108. 
Mink  (Pulorius  vison),  G7. 
Mirrors  in  Paris,  1%,  197. 
Mole,  common  (Scalops  aquaticut). 

108. 

Moonlight  on  the  snow,  43,  44. 
Mouse,  white-footed  or  deer  (Colo- 

mys  amerwanus),  52,  53. 
Mullein,  138. 

Napoleon,  Louis,  188. 

Negro,  the,  10-13,  17. 

Negro's  house,  a,  20. 

Nettle,  bb'nd,  98. 

Nettles,  105. 

Nightingale,  166 ;  song  of,  166. 

North  Mountain,  43. 

November  day,  a,  110,  111. 

Nuthatches,  16,  93 ;  notes  of,  19. 

Ocean,  the,  crossing,  131-135,  228- 

235. 

Orchard,  the  apple,  124-126. 
Oriole,  Baltimore  (Icterus  galbula), 

125. 
Oriole,     orchard.        See     Starling, 

orchard. 
Oven-bird.     See  Wood-wagtail. 


240 


IXDEX 


Oxen,  89.    See  Cattle. 
Oxen  Run,  21. 

Paris,  bridges  in,  144 ;  parks  of,  168, 
199,  200  ;  first  impressions  of,  190, 
191 ;  contrasted  with  London,  191, 
192 ;  the  good  taste  of,  192-194 ; 
theatres  of,  192,  193;  Sunday  in, 
194  ;  whip-snappers  in,  195,  196 ; 
mirrors  in,  196,  197.  See  France. 

Parks,  in  London,  167-169,  200 ;  in 
Paris,  168,  199,  200. 

Partridge,  or  ruffed  grouse  (Bonasa 
iimbellus),  tracks  of,  52,  54,  55 ; 
126  ;  drumming  of,  101. 

Partridge,  European,  142. 

Perch,  86. 

Pheasant,  142,  169. 

Pigeon,  passenger  (Ectopistes  mi- 
gratoritis),  101. 

Pigweed,  105. 

Pine,  yellow,  20. 

Pipit,  American,  or  titlark  (Anthus 
pejifilvanicus),  at  sea,  133. 

Plover,  English.  141. 

Poplar,  silver,  85,  95. 

Prairie  hen  (Tympanuchtu  ameri- 
canus),  87. 

Putupkintown,  a  walk  to,  15-21. 

Quail,  European,  142. 
Queenstown,  226-228. 

Rabbit,  English,  142, 169. 

Rabbit,    gray    (Lepus    sylvaticus), 

126. 
Raccoon,  or  coon  (Procyon  lotor), 

tracks  of,  62;  in  spring,  62,  63; 

hunting  with  a  dog,  63-fio  ;  108. 
Ragweed,  105. 
Railways,  in  England,  173,  174, 215  ; 

in  America,  173,  174. 
Red-root,  105,  106. 
Robin,    American    (Mfrula  migra- 

toria),  85,  86,  93,  101,  125.  126; 

notes  of,  93. 

Robin  redbreast,  165 ;  song  of,  165. 
Rook,  141. 

St.  Cloud,  199,  200. 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  156,  161. 

Sea.    See  Ocean. 

Seeds  sown  by  birds.  98. 

Seine,  valley  of  the,  188, 189 ;  beauty 

of  the,  199. 

September,  weeds  in,  105. 
Shad,  85,  87. 
Shakespeare,    quotations  from,   25, 

30 ;  birthplace  of,  214. 
Sheep,  93. 


Shottery,  210,  211. 

I  Skunk  (Mephitis  mephitica),  tracks 
of,  52,  59  ;  habits  or,  59-€2  ;  108. 
,  Skylark,  on  the  South  Downs,  161- 
164 ;  attempts  to  introduce  it  into 
the  United  States,  165, 226 ;  song 
of,  162-165. 

Snapdragon,  98. 

Snow,  beauty  of,  42,  43;  tracks  in, 
44,  45,  49,  50,  52-55,  57,  59,  62, 
65 ;  melting  of,  88,  89. 

Snowbird,  or  slate-colored  junco 
(Junco  hyemalis),  16. 

South  Downs,  the,  30 ;  a  day  on, 
161-164. 

Sparrow,  chipping.     See  Hairbird. 

Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  fasciata), 
16. 

Sparrow,  tree  or  Canada  (Spizella 
monticola),  16. 

Sparrow,  vesper  (Poocceles  gra- 
mineus),  song  of,  163. 

Spice-bush,  5. 
!  Spiders,  104,  105. 
|  Spring,  the  beginning  of,  85-89,  95, 
96  ;  fall  in  some  respects  a  parody 
of,  101,  102 ;  contrasted  with  fall, 
102,  103. 

j  Squirrel,  black  (Sciurvs  carolinenfis, 
var.  leucotis),  57,  82. 

Squirrel,  European,  200. 

Squirrel,  flying  (Sciuropterus  vo- 
lans),  56. 

Squirrel,  gray  (Sciurus  carolinen- 
sis,  var.  leuco(is),  tracks  of,  55 ; 
habits  of,  55-57,  82,  109. 

Squirrel,  red  (Sriiirus  hudfonicits), 
tracks  of,  55,  57  ;  activity  in  win 
ter,  55  ;  habits  of,  57,  58  ;  snicker 
ing  of,  109,  126. 

Squirrels,  93,  126. 
i  Starling,  orchard,  or  orchard  oriole 

(Icterut  fpuriiif),  125. 
!  Steamships,  ocean,  135, 136, 228-235. 

Stratford-on-Avon,  30 ;  a  visit  to, 
207-214. 

Sugar-making,  87,  89-95. 

Sumac,  dwarf,  106. 

I  Summer,  Indian.    S^e  Indian  sum 
mer. 

Sunlight,  in  Washington,  2,  3 ;  in 
morning  and  afternoon,  16*2,  103. 

Swallow,  English,  138. 

Teasels,  105. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  quotations  from, 

113,  166. 
Tern,     sooty    (Sterna    fuliginosa\ 

134. 
Thaxter,  Celia,  134. 


INDEX 


241 


Thistle-down,  97,  98. 

Thistles,  98,  105. 

Thoreau,   Henry  David,  quotations 

from,  16,  129,  130 ;  21, 32,  39,  107  ; 

and  wild  apples,  127-130. 
Thrush,  wood  (Turdus  mustelinus), 

12G. 

Thrushes,  163. 

Titlark.    See  Pipit,  American. 
Toad,  108. 

Tower  of  London,  the,  154. 
Tracks  in  the  snow,  44,  45,  49,  50, 

52-55,  57,  59,  62,  65. 
Trout,   brook,  101 ;   spawning  time 

of,  110. 

Turkey,  domestic,  69,  70. 
Turner,  J.  M.  W.,  232. 
Turtles,  108. 

Vervain,  105. 

Vulture,  turkey.    See  Buzzard. 

Wales,  the  mountains  of,  137,  217, 
218 ;  a  visit  to,  217-220. 

Walking,  in  America,  23-29 ;  in 
England,  29-31 ;  religion  and,  30, 
31  ;  delights  of,  31-34;  companions 
in,  34-36 ;  an  impetus  necessary 
in,  36,  37 ;  importance  of  cultivat 
ing  the  art  in  America,  38,  39 ;  on 
gravel  roads,  39. 

Walks,  about  Washington,  14-22. 

Warbler,  black  and  white  creeping 
(Mniotilta  raria),  at  sea,  132. 

Warblers,  126. 


Washington,  sunlight  in,  2,  3 ;  fall 
and  winter  in,  3-7  ;  summer  in, 
4  ;  buzzards  in.  7-9  ;  the  negro  in, 
10-13 ;  walks  about,  14-22 ;  March 
in,  85-87,  95,  96;  the  Capitol  at, 
156,  159  ;  parks  in,  167. 

Wasp,  109. 

Waxwing,  cedar.    See  Cedar-bird. 

Weeds,  in  September,  105 ;  in  haste 
to  produce  their  seeds,  106. 

Welsh,  the,  glimpses  of,  218-220. 

Westminster  Abbey,  161. 

Whip-snappers  in  Paris,  195,  196. 

Whitman,  Walt,  quotations  from,  2, 
105,206. 

Wilson,  Alexander,  34. 

Windsor  Castle,  154. 

Winter,  in  Washington,  3, 5-7  ;  elec 
tricity  in,  6 ;  walks  in,  14-22  ; 
beauty  of  the  world  in,  41-43 ; 
abdication  of,  65,  6C. 

Witch-hazel,  101,  104. 

Woman,  in  England  and  America, 
181-183;  in  France,  186,  187;  in 
Ireland,  226. 

Woodbine,  106. 

Woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax),  18, 
82,  86,  108. 

Woodpeckers,  16,  93,  126. 

Wood-wagtail,  or  oven-bird  (Seiurut 
aurocapillui),  song  of,  163. 

Wren,  winter  (Troglodytes  hitma- 
lis),  song  of,  163. 

Yellow-jackets,  109, 110. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

CENTRA:     1 1  II  1 1  II  III  1 1 II I  II  III  III  I 
Universit        AA    000895001    6 

DATE  DUE 


i  I  r*  i   /      -.      rf«     a^SB* 

NOV  i  71977 

QEC05  77 

CI39 

UCSD  Libr. 

